Lovesick
by milkmoth
Summary: Meroko becomes acquainted with her neighbor, the epitome of emotional wreckage. Too bad she's already a wreck herself. MerokoxIzumi, AU.
1. only angels have wings

_Title:_ Lovesick

_Rating:_ T for suicide, language, and sexual material; rating may go up depending upon how smutty the receive-ee may wish this fic to (eventually) be

a/n: includes possible melodrama and inaccuracy. definite AU. written as a Chirstmas fic for a friend - much love to her. :) song lyrics are not mine, but are not specifically credited because that takes the fun out of it - look them up + 'lyrics' on your search engine to find the song, if you're curious.

* * *

_eyes stare up_

_but something's in the way_

_in the bible only angels have wings_

_and the rest must wait to be saved_

* * *

Meroko lives on the top floor of a shabby apartment downtown. She has no mother. She has no father. She disowned them. Not legally, mind you. Not even most of the time. She still leaves the occasional message on their phone, a wheedling thirty seconds full of Mommy and Daddy and just fifty dollars of please, please, please, I love you still. She is twenty, still young, and still caught up in the flights of fancy that mark youth.

Why does she dislike her mother and father?

How does she pay the bills?

Is this a love story?

Most importantly: _will there be sex? _

You might as well ask.

Meroko, too, had many questions in life: a lot of them like _Where am I going _and _What am I doing, _and a lot of the time, the sentences were followed with big long rows of question marks. Frantic question marks: _???????_. Demanding. Needy. Overwhelming. These were some of the ways that the people who knew her best described her.

Meroko needed answers. She wanted and needed so badly that it killed her.

At least, it tried.

Twice.

Once, when she was sixteen, she tried razor blades, but could bring herself no more than two horizontal cuts across her skin, in quick succession. She bled and was so frightened she dropped the razor in the tub and ran for the sink, making little noises and trying to mop it up with a hand towel under the faucet. Blood diluted under the swishy stream of tap water, clouding and stinging.

A month ago – that was the second time. She took too many aspirin. Not too too many, as it turned out. It was like she didn't really want to kill herself. Either that or she was a little too weak and scared.

It was her first week on her own, in this shoddy apartment, and she was scared of all the emptiness and the boxes that lay unpacked. She felt like if she unpacked them her departure from her family would be final. Like she would be alone. Here, in this grimy apartment.

She excuses her own cowardice with_ I was interrupted!_

* * *

She took one, two, three, four, five, six ,seven, eight, nine, ten. Her throat began to feel sore. Eleven… twelve…

(_Just like a child's rhyme; you can do this, Meroko.)_

….twenty-four…

She swallowed. It was too much. Already her stomach was sinking, although maybe this was all in her head.

She stared at her wall, her mind already fading.

She stared at her poster of Route L.

She'd always liked the youngest one. Takuto. She wondered if he would have ever fancied her. Maybe in another life.

Another place.

Another time.

She lay back on her bed. Her eyes closed. She hummed a couple of bars of Route L's latest love ballad before dozing off. She thought she was ready. Maybe.

There was shame, too, but sleep (or death) had already claimed her.

She dreamed of wings. Maybe she would be an angel. But that was silly – angels were good. She was not good. Good people did not commit suicide. The very word – _commit - _what she was doing was a crime in its very description. You didn't _do _suicide or just _suicide _yourself.

There was a knock on her door. Another, more insistent. She opened her eyes. The knocking came again and again, always with a short pause. But whoever stood on the other end was impatient. The knocker only waited so long before knocking again.

Annoyed by their insensitivity (couldn't they tell she was trying to commit suicide?) Meroko staggered to her feet and toward the door. The drugs were already taking effect; she could tell by the way her stomach squished and growled. And by her own dizziness. She tried to sneak a glance of the digital clock she'd placed on one of her boxes. She couldn't make out the red numbers. She blinked, but turned to the door.

She paused and realized that she was living in the city now. She'd gotten a deal on her apartment for two reasons: because it was crappy and because it was in an even crappier neighborhood. Meroko fumbled for a can of pepper spray that she'd set near the door. She looked out the eyehole and made a face. It was a boy. Young. Maybe like… like _her. _Her age.

Her neighbor – what is there to say? That he's insufferable? That Meroko hates him with every fiber of her being? She didn't know any of this at the time. All she did was see, and this is what she saw: a young man, blonde and sallow and almost a bit sour looking, but with a roundness to his face that gave the impression of youth, a quirk to his lips that gave the impression of amusement.

He didn't look like a rapist, but one could never tell. It didn't occur to her that someone waiting for their suicide attempt to take effect shouldn't have much to worry about. Perhaps because she was Meroko, and she was by nature deliciously fickle.

"What do you want?" she called out through the door, holding her can of pepper spray at the ready.

"Sugar," he said.

Meroko stared out through the hole. "The hell?" she called out again.

"I wanted sugar. That's what you're for, isn't it? Neighbor?"

He smiled.

She opened her door.

"Why do you want sugar?"

He walked into her room. Meroko was suddenly acutely aware of the dust on the windowsill, the bars over her window, the crack; the stains on the linoleum and the dead cockroach on its back in the corner. Most of all, the boxes, still unpacked.

"I didn't invite you in!" she said, frantically.

He turned around and looked at her. "My," he said, "It looks like you've just moved in. Well, if I need to borrow _pepper spray, _I know where to come." He smiled again, and this time there was something sadistic in the sweetness of it. She realized she still clutched the pepper spray in her right hand. Her face was red.

"Get out!"

He didn't even bother to shake his head 'no'. He just continued to smile and turned back to the rest of the room.

"Get out!" she said again. The squelching in her belly was horrid.

She puked. Right on the floor. It was almost startling to her. She came down on her knees, clutching at her stomach.

He just stood there.

"Get out," she said again. She expected him to run away or, if he was a gentleman, to kneel down and put an arm over her back, and assure her things would be all right, just before asking what was wrong.

She wanted that.

"What did you take?" His voice was impassive. Indifferent. Phlegmatic bastard.

_How did he know? _

"Asprin."

"That was stupid." She expected some lecture on suicide. She got otherwise. "Cocktails are quicker."

She was a little surprised for a moment, but, staring into her own pool of vomit to avoid looking in _his _face. She felt like she was going to be sick all over again. It was a good thing she had drunk so much water.

"Get up," he sighed. With one arm and surprising strength, he pulled her to her feet. The long, pink strands near her face were coated with puke. She noticed this with some measure of disgust. He let her fall to the floor and picked up her phone.

"It's not connected," she mumbled. He stared, unblinking, in reply. His face was devoid of expression, but if she had to pick one it would be annoyance.

He hauled her up again by the arm and dragged her to his apartment. It was a messy affair, what with the thumping sound she made. She wouldn't blame any passerby at that moment if he had mistaken this stranger for a rapist and her for a drugged victim. The drugged part would have been spot-on.

Not three steps into his apartment was his phone. Normally, Meroko would have gotten a close look at another person's house, the second window of the soul, so to speak, but under the circumstances it was understandable that she barely noticed a thing. It was very neat, she thought vaguely, much better than her own, dusty and smelly as it was.

Calmly, he punched three numbers into the phone. Meroko strained to pick up what she could, but the urge to vomit was suddenly so overwhelming that it took all she had to keep it in check.

"Yes, hello. My name is Izumi Rio… and my address… yes… and I just walked in on my neighbor who's overdosed on aspirin. Yes, aspirin. I know, stupid, right? Very unusual." Pause.

His name was Izumi, she thought. She wasn't sure if she liked that name or not. She liked the way he was calling for help. It was very efficient of him, though it was annoying how he was taking his time about it. Ah, well, she liked his take-charge attitude. Wait. She didn't want help. She wanted to die.

She was suddenly very confused.

"No, I am, unfortunately, very serious. Yes. Please come and get her. She just puked on her floor. Uh-huh. It was gross."

More waiting, while a squeaky-faint voice talked on the other end.

"She's at my apartment now. Across the way." Meroko listened very closely. "Yes, please hurry. I don't want her puking on my floor." And he hung up.

"And that's all?" she asked.

"Yes. I shouldn't have come over. This isn't worth sugar."

"I don't even have any stupid sugar."

"I should have figured."

She was still on her knees. She leaned over and puked on his floor. And his shoes. And the bottoms of his pants.

"Definitely not worth it," he said, wrinkling his nose, just a bit, and cocking his head to the side. "Time to get you downstairs, druggie."

"I'm not a druggie," she said, clearly as she could, while she leaned on him to get back to her feet. "I'm an attempted suicide. A stastistic."

"Aren't we all."

It was not a question. It was one of those sarcastic, wry statements meant to satisfy a comment that calls for reaction.

She didn't go on. He prodded. "An attempted suicide?"

"Yeah."

"Well."

"Cause everything is icky."

"After you puked on it, I would have to agree." He stared down again at his shoes . They were beginning to smell. It was really quite nice of him, she thought, to put up with all this.

"You owe me sugar."

"I told you, I don't have any."

"Well, buy some. And maybe you should make me some food. Maybe some cake. Or some chocolate. What's your name?"

The lie she had practiced so many times: _Hi, I'll be _(insert suggestive purr here)_ serving you tonight. My name is_…

"Meroko. I can't cook."

They made their way down the stairs, one bumpy step at a time. He looked even more annoyed. There are five flights to go.

"Then how are you going to pay me back?"

She wanted to go on and say, _With my body, _but she thought that he might take her on her word. Because word is greater than intended sarcasm. Like signing a contract with the devil, all the tricky phrasing in the clauses.

They continued to trudge down the stairs, in silence but for her occasional moans of pain and his grunts of physical exhaustion. His step, much like his expression, did not waver.

At the bottom, he abruptly let go of her, and she stumbled back to the ground. He motioned with his head to the door, grubby as any other part of the apartment. There was a dirty mat, under his shoes on which she stabilized herself with her hands. She faced the ground and took deep breathes. It smelled like wet and hot together. The mat was damp with melted snow that had stuck to shoes. Maybe it will soon smell of her puke.

"Go," he said. "They should be waiting for you out there." She rose herself to her feet for less than five seconds before having to prop herself against the door. Sure enough, outside in the remnants of the melting snow, she could see an ambulance. A man jumped out. She opened the door. The cool air blasted her in the face and she took a sharp breath in and out; the icy vapor of breath appeared.

Suddenly, her sight went dim and sound, suddenly, went far away. She turned to look once more at Izumi, indifferent, before she took another sharp breath...

... and suddenly her eyes rolled back in her head and she went thunk and everything else went dark.


	2. fool for you

_

* * *

_

you know I'm such a fool for you

* * *

She woke up in the hospital. Everything was dark until she realized her eyes were closed. When she opened them, everything stayed dim for a minute before they went normal again.

Just as light was flooding back to her, a doctor entered. He gave her a look of mixed pity and reproach. "We had to pump your stomach."

She looked down in her lap. She realized that she wore a hospital gown, and that the strands of her long, pink hair hung down as limp and dirty as before.

"I know," she said, "I'm sorry." She said it in the same convincing way she always says it to her parents. She was rewarded with a tight-but-true smile. The doctor proceeded to sit down on the cornermost bit of the bed and went through a lecture on Why Not to Kill Yourself. She played with her hospital bracelet and tried to look appropriately regretful.

"Did anyone come for me?"

"Your parents have been notified," he said."It appears that although you are living on your own, Miss Rikyo, you are still on your parents' health insurance plan."

She cursed her low-pay, no-benefits job and tried to get to her feet. The doctor stopped her.

"You have to rest." He said nothing of how long, or her parents. She eased back on her pillow, muscles still tense and eyes wary.

"No Izumi Rio?"

"Who?

She figured as much. But it would have been curious if he had come. That would have meant he liked her. The doctor marked some things down on a clipboard and left the room without a last glance to the latest suicide attempt. _Statistic, _she'd said.

With quiet and nervous anticipation her only companions, Meroko pondered. If he liked her, that would be a good thing. Because she was beginning to like him.

Her parents entered; Meroko straightened up. Her mother covered her face and made a gasping-sobbing sound. Her father looked at her with shadowed, dim eyes.

"_Moe," _her mother said. It was a lament of many things, only one of which was the fact that she had very nearly lost her only child. The child's father said nothing.

Meroko fingered her paper bracelet even more nervously.

* * *

Meroko arrived home a few days later. She wore the same clothes that she left in, only clean, thanks to one of the nurses washing it for her. This because she refused to allow her mother to send for her things - she refused because that would have meant telling her mother where she lived.

It was so cold that day, as were so many other days in that damned city, that when she shut the main door to the complex behind her, she was shivering.

She looked around, half-expecting him to be there. The only thing that greeted her was the doorman's station, empty as always, the tiny black-and-white television buzzing.

She hurried up the stairs, all the while rubbing her arms for heat. Anything to stay warm. _Shit. _Her heat still wasn't on, or her electricity, and she'd already missed two days of work at the club. She'll have to go tonight. No time to rest in bed, trying to keep warm (at least it will be _warm _at the club). She paused, panting, and coughed weakly. Uh-oh. Oh _no. _

She climbed the last flight of stairs more slowly. When she came to her own floor, she noticed that Izumi Rio's door had a yellow note taped to the front, small and scribbled with blue ink. She stood and stared at it for a moment. It wouldn't be right to peek. No. Of course it wouldn't. But it wasn't like he'd _know… _She moved closer and traced over the scribbles, idly, with her index finger. She examined them, trying to decipher the sloppy print.

"What are you doing?"

She jumped. She turned to see him at the end of the hall, dressed similarly, now that she was in a state to notice, to how he was dressed the last time she saw him: smart-looking khakis and a button-down shirt. She noticed that his shoes had_ not_ been stained with her puke.

She laughed awkwardly. His expression replied that he was not won over.

"Nothing, nothing, I just noticed a note on your door, and…" she trailed off, hoping her omission would save her.

He put down the briefcase he held; a tatty, pretentious-looking thing. "Do you have that sugar?"

She looked up at him. A smile played there, just the smallest smirk. Her heart leapt.

"No," she said. "I… haven't had time to go shopping. This is the first time I've gotten home. I've been in the hospital."

He didn't reply. Instead, he walked to his door and ripped the yellow note off.

"Thank you," she said quickly, trying to fit her words in, "for bringing me to the hospital. I don't think it was serious but I really appreciate –"

He shut the door, practically in her face.

"_Hey," _she shouted, aware of how loud her own voice sounded in the empty hallway, "I mean it!" She wanted him to hear, and she was indignant at being brushed off. All her life, if there is one thing she hated, it was being brushed off.

She started banging on the door when he opened it again. His face was indifferent. She brightened up.

"Thank you," she said, trying to convey all of her affection in those two words. What was the world coming to, when a girl could find herself feeling this way in such a short period of time?

"Meroko? That's your name?"

She beamed, pleased that he remembered.

"Do you work at the strip club down the street?"

First, her face turned tomato red. Second, she stumbled backwards, almost tripping, just trying to put some physical distance between herself and him in his doorway. Finally, after a moment of standing there stupid and red-faced, she ran wordlessly the other direction and slammed _her _door behind her.

She could've died of shame.

With her back to the door, breathing hard and on the verge of tears, she recalled the look on his face. That smile, childishly sweet, as if he had never done and could do no wrong. Like he's not just shot her dignity through the head.

She bit her lip so hard it almost bled. _Shit. _Her apartment was colder than the hall, so cold she could hardly feel her own toes . She needed to change. She needed to get to work. _But to go to work, I have to get out the front door. _

She bit a little harder, a nd when she tasted blood she stopped.

_Ooh. Shit. Shit. Shit. _

It was not going to be easy, living with him across the way.


	3. don't kiss the girls

a/n: I thought I'd give everyone a heads up that I'm going to change this to an M rating. It's not going to be a full-out lemon, but the suggestive material, language, and upcoming citrus are probably reason enough. Putting the story on alert is always the best way to keep track of it (wink wink wink).

Thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed so far. I love writing this story, but support and feedback (the more detailed the better) keeps the writing-machine well-oiled. Enjoy the chapter!

_Disclaimer: Song lyrics and Full Moon characters don't belong to me._

* * *

_Don't touch the girls_

_Don't kiss the girls_

_I have the right to pay the girls_

_Get in a fight _

_One every night_

_The scratches, the bruises, and the bites_

_Meet you tonight_

_You'll make it right_

_You know that you're whetting my appetite_

* * *

She wondered if he was a frequent patron of strip bars, or if he just frequented hers. At any rate, she wasn't seeing him around anywhere. Was he to her left, that flash of blonde?

No, that guy was beefy. He wasn't anything like Izumi Rio – lithe, limber Izumi, almost cat-like. She allowed herself a girlish little sigh, only to be poked in the back by Soleil. At least, the girl said her name was Soleil. Meroko wasn't so sure anymore about whose name was given and who had made up a new one. Meroko had made up a new one to go with her new life. She thought it was pretty symbolic.

Soleil gave Meroko the glance that a lot of the senior workers tended to give the newer ones. Soleil was dark, distant, and disconcertingly pretty, even when she was acting smug and superior. "Give that guy his cocktail," she whispered blandly, nudging Meroko again.

Meroko repressed the second-long urge to give her a dirty look, but she only gave dirty looks to people when she knew she could get away with it. Here, she didn't know her surroundings. She was still the New Girl.

Meroko stumbled forward. She was clumsy on her stilted feet. She'd never been allowed to wear even the slightest heel. Her four-inch shoes were, therefore, difficult for her to manage. She could just picture her boss's look of distaste. _This one's green as they come. No boobs at all. No ass, either. But she's thin, and pretty. Got the Asian-girl appeal. Did you dye your hair yourself, dear? It's so long… What a look! That cinches it. Put her in some platforms, Jessica; she's can't handle the stilettos._

Strip clubs liked stereotypes more than implants, even if Neon was considered a little more burlesque, a little more 'exotic', even 'classy'. _Yeah, _Meroko thought, _Right. _

"Your drink, sir," she said, trying to sound shy but not _too_ coy. This job was harder than just walking in four-inch shoes. She'd always been friendly, but being too friendly with the men (and occasional women) whom she served might lead up an alley that she didn't want.

He touched her butt and smiled. As he took his drink, he squeezed a little and she nearly jumped. She knew Soleil was trying to look away out of pity – pity for her greenness. He laughed and tucked a dollar bill into her belt. Well. At least it wasn't in her panties.

Meroko regained her composure. "Enjoy" she said, trying to be cool.

"It takes time," Soleil said, shrugging knowingly, as she strode off. She walked like she was gliding, like she was on ice. Meroko wished she knew how to do that. Walk without letting any of the guys get a peek up her skirt. Soleil might have been a scantily clad server like the rest, but she had class. Meroko begrudgingly gave her that.

Drowsiness settled in, and she paused to yawn, watching Soleil retreat to the backroom. She rubbed her eyes with the hand that wasn't holding the empty tray. Absently, her hand founds its way to her back. She fingered the gaudy-glittery wings that perched there, attached to the black, skimpy top (more like bra) that she wore. Light flashed in her eyes, making her blink, and then everything went dark. Bass music started pounding – eleven. The Friday night striptease was starting. At two she could go home. Just three more hours. She could do this.

She removed her hand from her wings. _Just three hours. _Sadness took over with the sleepiness. In the big, dark room, full of dance music and catcalls, she suddenly felt alone. Dramatically, extremely alone. A pit formed in her stomach.

She wished they hadn't pumped it.

She sighed and went into the backroom, absently replaying in her mind words that her boss had said, words that her mother had said.

"Hey, Bunny!" It was Jessica, bouncing as always. She winked and turned a little, revealing at least three twenties stuck in the back of her skirt. Then, in a more business-like voice, "Poophead wants you."

The girls at Neon were accustomed to calling its regular patrons by descriptive nicknames – girls like Jessica more so, girls like Soleil less. The harder to put up with, the more derogatory the name. Poophead's name, he had confessed to Meroko, was actually Bill. He was called Poophead because his hair was the nastiest, oiliest brown any of the girls had ever seen. And he was kind of dumb. And because they were juvenile, and that was a juvenile name.

She groaned and, stuck her tongue out at Jessica. "Now? I was just getting a drink for that guy over there." This was a lie. Meroko didn't like Poophead at all. He was worse than Beefcakes and Warty put together.

Nonetheless, she handed her tray to Jessica and walked over to his little table. As usual, he sat alone, jerking his head around every so often to follow one of the girls. His smile went down when he saw Meroko, but she could see an anxious anticipation instead. He licked his lips. _Eeew. _

She almost rolled her eyes. There was something mundane about him that made her hate him more than the average guy. He almost made moves on her, trying to be debonair and not come off as some kid in a candy store. Sometimes he touched her shoulders and leaned in to get a peek down her shirt (not like there was any crevice to peek into). He'd been coming almost every day for a week. She seemed to be the draw.

She slid down in the booth, thigh a reasonable few inches away from his. Sitting next to him, she tried to smile, tried not to think about how bad his hair stank of product. Guy hair shouldn't stink of product. Only girl hair, maybe.

He leaned in and she screwed up her nose. He, however, seemed to find this charming, because he hiccupped and lost all façade of pseudo-debonair. He laughed. Somehow, even his laugh sounded like it was having a mid-life crisis.

"I missed you – and that's cute. Don't they call you Bunny? Do they call you that, Meroko?" He said the name wrong. With all the emphasis on the middle _oh. _

"You can just call me Bunny."

He clumsily fingered one of the ears on her to top hat. At least he was taller than her.

"Right, right. I just ask for the girl in the rabbit top hat." He leaned in and nearly kissed her (so clumsily she wasn't even sure where he was going for) but she leaned back in time that all he got was air. This was when she realized he was probably a little bit tipsy. Maybe even drunk. _Shit. _

He was leaning on her now in the booth, and she had to fight the creep-shivers. Predictably, his hand crawled up her thigh, and she had to take it in one of her own gloved hands before it went too far. He didn't seem much to care. He put a hand behind her head, and, suddenly, he jerked her head back by her hair. She let out a little yelp, not so much out of pain but of surprise and maybe even fear. He'd knocked off her top hat.

"I'm sorry," he said, sounding halfway genuine. He didn't let go, but it didn't matter. Meroko's eyes had gone wide, and something sweet filled her up. Upside-down, she caught a glimpse of _him_.

She blinked slowly, but even when she opened her eyes they were still filled with Izumi Rio.

And then she panicked. She'd been hoping to find him before he found her. Always better that way. A few minutes of pulse-pounding, school-girlish indecision – _should I go up to him or wait for him to notice me? – _but at least she would have the upper hand. It felt like he always knew more than she did. It was getting annoying, although her attraction to him hadn't dampened. Funny. It wasn't like any crush she'd had before, even though she'd had a lot of them.

Bill shook her by her hair a little, gently, like with a doll a child suspects might be broken. She wanted to snap at him to _watch it, _because it was hard to get hair that long untangled, but she was thinking so hard about _what to do _that she didn't have time to think of anything else.

"Bunny…?"

All of a sudden, he released her by the hair, and she sat up, willing herself not to look behind her. She needed to concentrate on the task before her, and then…

She snuck a glance over her shoulder. He was still sitting there, eyes trained, unblinking on the stage, leaning back and holding a glass in his right hand. Arms crossed. Leg's, too, like a real gentleman's. Not some pervert who was there to fondle the server. His shirt, she noticed, had an extra button undone at the top, which practically made her swoon.

"Are you all right?" It was Bill, looking more nervous than concerned. He was fidgeting with his hands. He thought she didn't notice, but she did.

What she wouldn't give for him to be Izumi Rio.

"Bunny – Meroko?"

She wasn't sure who she was. Izumi said it right. When Izumi said it, all the breath fell out of her lungs.

"I'm fine," she said, the pit in her stomach returning.

"You look upset…did… did I scare you?" He seemed to perk up at the thought, as though his wild ways had never before stunned a girl. He probably thought she was a virgin. He would be close, but not correct.

"I'm fine," she repeated, more comfortingly, and before she knew it, his hand had slid under her butt. She cast a nervous glance back at Izumi. Was he watching her? Did he think she was a slut? Did he think she was a slut even before this? Was that why he closed that door in her face? She couldn't tell; he was staring at the stage.

His lips touched her neck, lightly at first, then a little harder, until he was practically biting. She bit her lip to keep from screaming out in repulsion, or from hissing. Fondling was one thing. Kissing, she felt, was sacred. Between lovers. In love. She was always a hopeless romantic. Before she could blow a gasket, he tucked a bill into her top.

If she was a more sensible girl, she would have told herself that maybe this was worth it. She hadn't worked in three days – that was three days of no pay, no tips. But Meroko was a romantic down to her last pinky toe. Down to the tiniest, most fragile bone in her neck.

So her cheeks went redder and redder with flush (not passion, embarrassment) and just as she was ready to screw her job she looked over to Izumi. Maybe she was hoping he wasn't looking. She wasn't going to lie: what she wanted was for him to save her. Swoop up and take her from this creepy perv's clutches, and maybe, in the long run, save her from herself.

He was staring right at her.

And she could detect just a hint of a smile as he sipped. Swallowed. Stared. Repeat.

Smile.

Repeat.

She was so shocked that she let the guy's hands crawl all over her while she just stared back. Their eyes were meeting. They weren't speaking. But they were meeting.

Then she jumped up, kicked her _customer _hard in the shin and ran away, half-crying. Half-livid.

* * *

When she got back, Poophead had gone (she could use a name for him, now that he was gone) and she was still shaking like a leaf. Jessica comforted her, although Meroko could still read the pity in her eyes: _Oh, you poor girl. You don't understand yet, do you? Poor, green Bunny. _

Meroko had never felt more like a rabbit in the headlights. Only she was more like a rabbit already run under a tire.

_(And her boss wasn't going to be happy; this could be it, and where else would she get money...?)_

She understood more than Jessica did. Jessica was happy. Jessica had never been forced into something that she never wanted.

Meroko knew how that was.

* * *


	4. here and then you're gone

* * *

_Nothing mentioned, nothing gained_

_  
You're here and then you're gone_

__

Your complications keep me sane

_We're cold and intimate_

* * *

Meroko was restless, but she willed herself not to toss and turn. If she tossed and turned, she would lose the warm spot she'd made in her sheets, under a pile of second-hand blankets and even all her clothes. And it. Was so. Damn. Cold.

(She needed to get the heat turned on _stat, _even if she had to go without food for a week. All she wanted was to be warm.)

(All she wanted...)

* * *

"Our customers don't expect that kind of treatment." She blew two identical streams of smoke out of her nostrils before raising the cigarette for a heavy drag. Her heavily-lidded eyes flicked to meet Meroko's, and Meoroko could sense a faint disappointment. "If he never comes here again, that'll be your fault, you know?"

Meroko wiggled her toes nervously inside those damned four-inch platforms. Damn. Damn. Oh, God.

Candace nodded sharply. "What did he give you? You might as well look."

At first Meroko didn't understand. She stared at her boss for a moment before it dawned on her. She reached up toward her top and gingerly pulled out the bill, trying not to look at the figure.

"What is it?"

Meroko looked. "A hundred."

"You know, dear, I'm not your shrink… but how do you feel about that?"

Meroko replied honestly. "Surprised."

"Beyond that?"

"Kind of… satisfied?"

Candace nodded, sucking a deep drag of her cigarette at the same time. Meroko wondered if they called her Candy when she used to be a stripper. Ha. Candy Stripper.

_Not the time, Meroko. _

"You learn. Once you're in this business, it's about money. Not dignity. If he ever comes again, you make him comfortable. Act coy. I'm not saying to let it get out of control. For your own safety, dear, never let it get out of your control. Rule number one. "

"I… okay."

Candace shook her head. "Not to mention that you let him feel you up, right there in front of everyone. I'm trying to keep up the appearance of a semi-classy establishment. I try… Oh, never mind. I want you to take that kind of thing to the back rooms, you understand."

Meroko winced. "I… understand."

"Show me I chose right when I picked you up. In this profession, you have to be in control."

_I'm not, _Meroko thought, _you chose wrong. _

Candace shrugged and stood. She simply strode away, leaving a shivering Meroko in her wake.

"I'm letting you keep that because you were out three days. Don't know what you had, but it must've been bad, for a desperate little girl like you not to come to work." A smirk, almost teasing, flashed on her face. "A crisis of morality, mmm?"

_A crisis of faith, _Meroko thought, thinking again of wings and dying. And Izumi. And feeling like she wanted to cry all over again.

* * *

There was a loud rapping on her door that made Meroko flinch and nearly jump. _Rapists, _she thought, _thieves, muggers, murderers… _She was born in a nice little house in a nice area full of nice people. She was not cut out for this, this kind of real life. Not this or stripping, or… she could feel herself crying.

_Izumi. _Speak of the goddamn devil. It could only be him.

Ready to give him a piece of her mind, Meroko abandoned her bed (but not before pulling a blanket over her shoulders) and walked to the door. Her bare feet literally hurt against the cold floor. Like they were being stuck with vicious, small pins. She gritted her teeth and clutched at the blanket. Every one of them was Izumi. She could not show him her pain.

At the door, she didn't even check the eyehole to make sure it was him. She swung the door open.

"Do you have that sugar yet?"

"No," she said, sarcastic, "but I got some money, so maybe if come over tomorrow I can make you a cake, instead of paying for my heat or rent."

He frowned. "Electricity's off in the entire building. That's why it's so cold." She noticed that he was wearing multiple layers, a coat over a sweatshirt and a pair of pants and two pairs of socks. She gritted her teeth together and realized that she didn't _have _any socks. It was her greatest oversight.

She crossed her arms, partially for heat, and willed her body not to spasm, even against the cold that was travelling up her legs. "What do you want?"

He held up a candle. "Light would be nice."

She glared at him. "Stay out there – _stay," _she barked when he tried to come in. She scurried to the would-be kitchen of the room and dug out one of the few things in the drawers: a pack of matches.

"You can take them all," she said coldly, "I'm going back to bed."

"Mind if I join you?"

"Absolutely _not,"_ she said, even more disgusted. She slammed the door on his face and hoped that, maybe, now he felt the same pain that she had. Unlikely as it was, it gave her a sense of calm and control. Did he really think she was that loose all of a sudden, just because she worked at a burlesque club? _Pig. _

"You were crying." She could hear him, muffled, on the other side of the door. He didn't sound sorry. _He should be. _

"_Wasn't_," she contradicted viciously, readjusting the blanket around her.

"Shhh. You'll wake up the neighbors."

She slumped with her back against the door. She closed her eyes. "There are no damn neighbors."

"Why?" She imagined that he was slumped against the door, too, his back to hers through the wood.

"Do you even care?"

"Not particularly," he said.

She screwed up her nose.

"Why were you at Neon, anyway?"

"What did you say? I'm sorry, I can't hear you over here."

"_Nothing."_

"Why was I there?" Pause. "I like going to strip clubs."

"Why did you just _watch,_ while he did that to me?"

"Can you figure it out? Me-chan?"

Sometimes, you can tell from someone's voice when they're smiling. Meroko could tell now. It cut like a knife. The honorific gave her shivers. So she was right. He had been Japanese, at least part.

"Don't call me that."

"Talking about the honorific? Can't deny what you are, Me-chan. No more than I can." He sounded wry. She wondered if there was a story behind his glassy eyes and suddenly, her feelings surged. She _wanted. _Wanted him, wanted to know. Wanted him to tell her. Wanted to be close enough for him to whisper it. She reached for the doorknob, but didn't turn it. She was too tired to be impulsive. The doorknob was so cold it burned, just like the cold had burned her feet. She held onto it anyway.

"Me-chan?"

"So what are you?" she finally said hotly, then, a bit more patiently: "I don't know what you are, okay? Just tell me. Please."

"I'm a voyeur, Me-chan. Self-acknowledged."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Not at all. I like pain, too."

"I already knew that," she snapped. She did. She clutched the doorknob tighter, more for support than anything else. She was shaking from the cold.

_Sadistic bastard._

Her muscles tensed and untensed. "You can come in if you'd like," she said, not knowing where this was going to lead.

"It's not as if you can offer me coffee – are you offering me something else?"

Her jaw clenched. "I…"

"Are you cold at all, Me-chan?"

"Yes, I am."

"Shouldn't you get back to bed?"

"I should – "

"Go to bed," he finished, almost cheerily. "Goodnight."

She stayed slumped against the door, breathing steady through chattering teeth. She couldn't hear him on the other side, but she imagined his breathing (like a child's sigh) and thought that maybe he hadn't left, because she hadn't heard his door shut. She didn't know if it creaked like hers.

She stood, letting the cold pierce her feet. This time she didn't squirm. "Goodnight," she said, finally. There was no sound from the other side of the door. Had he gone?

She pressed her hands and her ear against the door, trying to imagine him there, even though, in all likelihood, he had already gone. Her skin was goose bumped from the cold. Her cheek against the cold wood. Somehow, she wished it was him.

God. She had it bad.

She sighed, then tiptoed back to bed, back to her safe, warm place. The goosebumps didn't go away. She stayed there, only half-asleep, until the cold dawn leaked in.


	5. pretty girl

_and that's what you get for falling again_

_you could never get him out of your head_

_

* * *

  
_

Life slipped into a bumpy kind of pattern. Her apartment was filling up with a sweet, homey kind of… clutter, she would say, except her room was still bare. The only change was that now she had a shabby table and some flea-market knick-knacks. There was even a bright red kettle that sat on the stove. Meroko didn't drink tea. She just liked it there.

Of course, even if she wanted to use her kettle, heating and electricity bills still weren't paid. Too damn expensive. Izumi had been right anyway: electricity was off in the entire building for a month while it got fixed. As if. Everything was always broken. They were the only occupants on the top three floors, and the only ones affected by the heating shortage. Apparently, Izumi paid his rent late, too, because the landlady didn't listen to any of her pleas or friendly little notes that asked, could the repairs be made any more quickly? It made her feel almost as though she didn't exist, like she was a squatter, except she _was_ still paying rent.

Basically, things were going… okay. Better, maybe, because as cold as she was at home, at least she wasn't in hot water at work.

The only thing missing was Izumi Rio.

Because Izumi Rio seemed to be avoiding her.

It was strange, because he normally couldn't stay away, like a plague. A plague of very annoying, snarky locusts. And all of a sudden – poof, _gone_. Was he doing extra hours at his workplace (whatever his work was) and, more importantly, was he doing them to purposefully avoid her? Meroko even kept her eye out for yellow notes taped to his door. She'd seen another one since, but had ignored it out of respect for Izumi's privacy. Actually she avoided them because she was scared of him catching her again, but partially for the privacy thing, too. Now Meroko was desperate and willing to try anything that might provide her a clue.

She found herself sitting up late at night when she got home from work, tapping her fingers against the floor, her teeth chattering, wondering if he was home and if he would open his door if she knocked.

_He has to come home some time. _It dawned on her: Midnight. _No one _worked up to midnight! She knew he would be there. She stood, then thought better of it. A million insecurities flashed though her mind, and she sat back down. He didn't want to see her. He thought she was too slutty, or too ugly, or too desperate. But…

* * *

Aside from the erratic acceleration of her heartbeat, she immediately noticed that he was still wearing his business attire: his button-up shirt and just slightly-loosened tie. Which only made her heartbeat go that much faster. So he was working late – it didn't mean he wasn't avoiding her, because she _knew _that he was.

She smiled awkwardly and his eyes flicked over her. She was hyper-conscious of her chapped lips and windblown hair, of what a mess she looked. His eyes lingered on the box and the bottle she held, one in each hand. When they met hers again they were yellowish, unblinking, and totally typical. She felt her heart sink. Her smile stayed plastered on.

"I brought you cake," she said. She glanced nervously down at the box. "And some cheap wine," she said, talking faster, "Because I really can't bake and I thought, you know, everyone likes alcohol." Not everyone. Not Meroko. She only liked champagne – she loved the sweetness, and the bubbles, and the feeling that she was rich as she sipped it out of glass cups. She didn't understand why anyone would like wine, with its flat, acidic taste. She wondered if Izumi had any glass cups for the wine. She certainly didn't.

It was silent for a beat too long, and just as she was about to apologize and scurry back to her own apartment he spoke.

"Do you want to come in?"

He sounded resigned.

"Yes," she said promptly, and she nearly skipped into his apartment. He shut the door behind her, closing his eyes for a moment and muttering something to himself that she had no desire to hear.

"Do you have any food?" she asked, suddenly shy, as she set the store-bought cake and the bottle on the table. She was looking everywhere at once. His house was so clean and neat. So clean and neat that it almost frightened her, although it was a little bit shabby at the same time, warning of wear. It was almost identical to hers, but the big room looked a lot smaller when it was filled up with furniture. Unlike in her apartment, there were eerie, dark water stains on the ceiling and walls, although she could see how he'd valiantly tried to hide them behind extra coats of paint.

"How do you keep it so clean?"

"I should be asking you how you stand to live with nothing but cardboard boxes and a mattress."

"I have a coffee table now," she said defensively.

"_Really,_" he said. She thought she could detect a smile. "I ought to come see that sometime."

"Maybe when you do I can offer you some coffee," she said. It was meant to be a suggestion. He turned away and didn't reply. She was put out.

She set the wine and cake down on the table, with her back to him. She bit at her lip and stared down, tracing the faux-wood patterns with her eyes. In her mind, she screamed all the things she couldn't say aloud: _I just don't get you._ _One minute you're practically asking me to have sex with you and the next minute you go completely cold._

"Why did you come over so late?"

She turned and stared at him. He stared back. She eventually looked away. He'd won the staring match.

"You've been avoiding me," she muttered, now staring at the floor. "You're never around."

Silence.

"I expect a better answer than that."

She looked up again, her eyes flashing. "I needed to give you your goddamn cake."

He smiled. "Better."

"Give me a knife," she demanded.

"What, you didn't bring one?"

It was a good thing he didn't give it to her right then, because she would have stabbed him with it.

"I don't have one! Just get me a goddamn knife!"

He dug through his drawers. "I'll give you the '_goddamn knife'_. Just hold on a minute." He sounded amused, and she realized she was cussing, and he was making fun of her.

"I'm assuming you did not buy the sugar to make this." He cut two pieces.

"I bought it at the supermarket down the street." He put them on plates.

"I'll forgive you," he said, as though he was pardoning her for some misconduct (it _annoyed_ her).

"I don't have an oven," she grumbled. "At least, I don't have one that works."

With a little thump he set a plate of cake before her, then slid into the chair across the table from her. He cocked his head to the side. A plate of cake sat before him without him so much as looking at it.

"Eat up."

She looked down at her cake and back up at him. "Why aren't you eating anything?"

"How'd you get the wine? You're underage, aren't you?"

His words made her sit up a little straighter, and she flushed.

"How do you know? I never told you how old I am."

He shrugged and opened the bottle of wine. He peeked into it. "Only half-full," he commented, almost disapprovingly. "Did you buy this off the drunkard downstairs?"

"I'm twenty," she said, her voice unsteady. The information was an awkward offering. She didn't answer his other question - whether or not she bought it from the drunk downstairs - but he knew she meant yes. He smiled a bit wryly and offered her the bottle.

"Hold this while I get some glasses."

Shockingly, he actually did have the wine glasses, and as she sipped at her wine, feeling awkward, she realized once again how strong her want was. In the dim, she traced his outline, the smooth curve of his neck, craned so he doesn't have to look her way. His nose. His profile. Not straight on. She giggled a little, and she thought maybe it was the wine making her that way – how much had she had?

Just one drink. She didn't drink, but it tasted so sweet and warm – despite the acidic, flat flavor – that she held out her glass and he poured her another. She was blurting things she wasn't even recognizing, and, as she held out her glass for another tip-off, she asked him:

"Why aren't you drinking anything?"

"I don't drink," he replied, and maybe it was just because she was getting tipsy and imagining things, but she thought he sounded sad. Or ironic. Maybe both. Wry and bitter and all that wrapped in one.

"Oh," she said, pulling her filled glass toward her, "Well, you should try it. I don't drink either, and it's really good."

She smiled at him. He smiled back at her. For once they were on the same wavelength and she felt herself fill up with bubbles.

He filled her glass once again, then filled his own, empty until then. They clinked glasses – _cheers_! – and she finally took a bite of the cake set before her.

She smiled, he smiled.

And he kissed her.

It lasted a while, a moment of scuffling chairs as she tried to get comfortable. He was perfectly silent, not even gasping and fidgeting like her.

His mouth on hers, until she broke away to breathe. He was a good kisser. After so many bad kissers (once, and then Bill; that made two) it was exhilarating to be kissed by someone whose kiss she desired so strongly. She breathed in and out, her breath shallow and her heart was beating harder than it ever had before. She was shaking. Her heart thumped in her ears so hard she could hear it.

She was dizzy.

He stood and stared impassively, not saying a word, and she couldn't tell for the life of her what he might have been thinking, except that he was not looking at her. Was he guilty? What was there to be guilty about?

This was about the best moment of her life.

She took a deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Even so, her voice quivered, giving away all the trembling anticipation, all that wistful humming inside her. "What are you waiting for?"

He kissed her again.

He tasted like wine and saliva, with a hint of cologne, or probably shampoo. It's scent was a tad too sharp, so it was probably something cheap. He wore it with as much dignity as he could, and she admired that. Moreover, it was overpowered by the scent of him; if she had to compare it to anything it would be that vague, variating masculine scent of men, plus a hint of something softer. Baby powder, maybe.

It ended with Izumi dimming the lights and whispering things into her ear. It wasn't anything she'd ever heard before - it was how much he wanted her. Not 'you're beautiful, Meroko', or any of those disgusting words that would have brought back memories (only a year dead) and made her vomit.

His hand came down to the small of her back, under her shirt, and her spine tingled at the touch on her bare back.

He whispered something in her ear.

She felt him tug at her waistband.

_What are you waiting for-_

_Is this what you've been waiting for?_

_Pretty Meroko-_

She kissed him harder before he broke off, jerking away from her.

"That's it," he said curtly.

She stared at him, eyes still glassy. "What?"

"You obviously have no idea what you're doing. You're pushing too hard."

If she was a man, she would have found that even more offensive, but as it was she was offended enough. "What do you mean by that?"

He stared at her. His lips looked swollen, tinged pink. His eyes were nearly blank. Woo-hoo. Big surprise. "You think I'm going to have sex with you."

She bit her lip and flushed in a way that, most certainly, clashed horribly with her hair. "You don't have to say it like that," she grumbled. "And I wasn't. So you know."

He cocked his head to the side again – that disconcerting habit that made him look like a very intelligent dog, or even a puppy, considering his sly baby face.

He collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs, and suddenly Meroko felt completely sober.

".... I… I guess I'll go now."

She fumbled for so much as this casual goodbye, because all meaningful words and thoughts leaving her head to make room for an overwhelming, all-consuming embarrassment. Slowly and clumsily, she scooped up her coat and made her way to the door, averting his eyes.

"I'll go now," she said, the words finally surfacing past her lips. She thought she might have felt a tear slip down her chin, overw. "If you never want to see me again, that's fine." _Although it's going to be hard avoiding each other now, _she thought, _since we're neighbors and everything. _

He watched her with his yellow cat eyes.

"Wait."

_What you're waiting for. _

She turned around, not daring to believe. Her body responded instinctively to the hope that maybe he still wanted – the hair on her neck prickled, and she felt a tickle in her stomach.

"What?"

His eyes were the glassy ones now – but weren't they always glassy? In the dark she couldn't tell if there was lust in them, or love, or pity, even. Pity for this girl with chapped lips and silly pink hair, who looked younger and stupider, more naïve, than the twenty years she had. Sorry, virginal Meroko.

She turned away and stared at a spot on the floor, not-blinking so she could keep the tears from falling out. She didn't see him, but she could feel him standing next to her. Then she felt his thin, fine, long-fingered hands around her neck, tilting her head upward. Even staring at him from inches away – even then – she couldn't see what was in his eyes.

He kissed her again.

She tasted like hot salt, like tears, and despite himself he knew it was the best taste a kiss could have.


	6. suffering, while he confesses everything

_Pretty soon she'll figure out what his intentions were about

* * *

_

Meroko woke up tangled in a stranger's sheets.

In Izumi.

She went stiff and tried not to breathe. Everything was still, except for Izumi's calm, deep, in-and-out sleep breathing. Slowly, she inched her neck over and stared out of the corner of her wide eyes.

Shit.

He was gorgeous.

He slept on his stomach, left leg entwined with her right, and she marveled at the way the dim winter sun looked on his hair, how his spine stuck out and his back sloped. She could see every shadow of every goose bump on his bare back, and she shivered in the same mid-December cold.

He was so gorgeous that she didn't register the magnitude of her actions. She'd slept with her neighbor after knowing him for, oh, approximately one week, and would have to live with him for months and possibly years after. But he was so gorgeous that instead she found herself flushing. And noticing how his apartment was marginally warmer than hers. Or how maybe that was his (gorgeous) body heat.

He stirred; those long, nearly-invisible golden eyelashes fluttered. _So he's a light sleeper, _she thought, although a part of her had already known.

He didn't move closer. He just stared, and she wanted to scoot an inch back because suddenly close felt _too _close. It was weird. How could have sex with someone and still feel so far away from them?

She held out a hand, not even noticing that she was shaking slightly, just to touch him, maybe brush that strand of hair out of his face – but he took her hand in his own bony one before she could do that, discouraging her. He sat up, blinking and staring at the lump in the sheets that would have been his feet.

"What's wrong?" she realized she sounded childishly pouty, defensive, but as long as she didn't sound clingy or desperate she would settle.

He sat up on the edge of the mattress, his back facing her.

She put her own cold hand on his even colder back, hoping to warm him and knowing it wasn't going to work. He sat there, letting her touch him.

"I can go now," she said, in a small voice. She knew it was going to happen sooner or later. The part where he'd want her to leave. She could go back to her own apartment, sleep until the sunset. Alone in the dark, she'd do the usual: wake up, eat some stale potato chips, and go to work.

"You don't have to," he said tiredly, like he was trying to be polite and it pained him.

"Izumi-"

"Rio. My first name. Izumi is my last name."

"Does anyone call you buy your first name?"

Pause. "No one."

She stared at the back of his head. "Then I won't either."

There was another pause. Meroko gingerly scooted closer, finally sitting on her feet a couple of inches away from his back.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Are you trained in therapy, Me-chan? If not, I could sue you when I finally decide to jump in front of a train."

She bit at the inside of her cheek, debating whether or not to continue. The use of his nickname for her (he had moaned it into her ear at least twice last night) seemed like invitation enough, although he said it bitingly. "I'm not a therapist," she conceded, "but I want to know…" she touched the nape of his neck, and he seemed to stiffen, almost imperceptibly.

"You have a story," she whispered, "so what is it?"

He turned toward her, wearing a mask of boredom. They looked at each other, and she tried her best to ignore the fact that he was mostly naked (and pale as the dim winter morning outside) in favor of meeting his eyes and holding them.

All then, in a sinuous movement, like a predatory cat, he had her pinned down to the mattress, whose springs groaned and creaked at the sudden shift in weight. She held in a gasp, suddenly unable to move, as his teeth scraped across her neck, followed promptly by his wet, warm tongue.

His roughness - sudden, less insidious than the night before - thrilled her, sent a shot of adrenaline straight to her brain, even as her hand reached up to cup his face and kiss him, she remembered that adrenaline was fear's gift, the body's alert system in hormones. At least, that was what her therapist had said.

And Meroko realized: she was scared.

Moments later she broke away from the kiss and tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he continued, mumbling – almost moaning – something under his breath, although she wasn't sure if it was her name or not. "_Izumi," _she squeaked, "_Izumi._"

His lidded eyes seemed to finally see and he leaned back. He stared at her for a second and then brought his palm to his forehead, sweeping up the uncombed mess of bangs in exasperation.

"I'm sorry," he said, and now he sounded like he had a headache. A pesky one, that called for some aspirin, stat. "I don't think this is going to work out."

Her lips were trembling. _But you have a story,_ she wanted to say.

She opened her mouth.

"But… I like you."

There it was. It came out as clingy and desperate and as fifth-grade as she had dreaded. She winced as soon as the words left her mouth.

"You need to get out."

Rude and to-the-point, just like that.

In the most awkward silence of her life, Meroko picked up her shirt and her jeans from the floor, hastily slipping them on. They were cold as ice from sitting on the floor all night long. Ignoring the now _very _stale cake and empty bottle of wine, remnants of a ghostly, beautiful evening, Meroko grabbed her coat and slipped her feet into her shoes. She yanked the door open and blinked. A yellow note was taped to it.

Acting on instinct, Meroko tore it off, but not before glancing over at Izumi – his yellow eyes were wide, he'd seen it. She tore the note off the door and spent only seconds scanning it before being instantly tackled to the cold ground by Izumi, who had, with great skill, _already _pulled a pair of pants on.

"_Give-that-back-"_

"No!" she shrieked, probably sounding like a fifth-grade girl again. "_No!_"

The exchange could easily have been mistaken for a spat between two grade-schoolers. It was a good thing no one lived on the three nearest floors, because it could just as easily have been mistaken for rape.

Especially considering the fact that Izumi's fly wasn't totally secured.

"_You-give-me-my-"_

With a rip, the note tore into two, each of them holding one part. Izumi looked taken aback. Meroko blinked at her half, allowing Izumi a chance to swipe it from her.

"Hey!"

"It was mine anyway," he said as he eased himself off of her. He was, once again, the picture of brusque, cool dignity.

He slammed the door behind him as he disappeared into his apartment, leaving her on the floor of the hallway.

Meroko blinked again. Her newfound knowledge was

The notes were from his _mother. _

Like verbal diarrhea, all the hideously nosy things she wanted to ask rushed out:

"Why is your mother sending you notes?" she asked the door "What kind of a woman is your mother? What about your father? Where do you work, what do you do?" Her voice cracked. "Why don't you drink?"

Her voice grew softer and softer.

"How are cocktails quicker? What's a cocktail? Have you tried to kill yourself?" Then, nearly in a whisper: "Do you visit strip clubs often? Did you ever notice me? Do you think I'm pretty?"

The door didn't respond, and she knew very well he wasn't on the other side. He wasn't listening to her.

Her lips stopped, moving, and breath didn't come out, but her mind still whirred with questions:

_Did you like having sex with me at all? Did you want someone to be close to, and then push them away? Did you like that? Because I like you a lot, and now I know you don't feel the same, and what do I do now, you bastard? Izumi?_

She glared tearfully at the door for a few minutes (the tears had finally come) before lumbering back into her own apartment.

Instead of sleeping, she went out and bought three pints of Ben and Jerry's, and ate it all while reading and re-reading a tabloid she bought at the same supermarket. Drowning in ice cream and celebrity only numbed the pain. Forgetting didn't seem to be an option her body would allow.

When she closed her eyes, she thought of the first time she'd had sex, of the blood and the pain and the standing outside herself waiting for it to end. And then she thought of Izumi's long, thin fingers and how she thought he might have loved her and she nearly thought that was worse. She wasn't sure, but it might have been.

Then she went and threw up.


	7. coquette

a/n: 10/18/09: It's a loooong chapter, but I think I like it. Hoping you all do, too (and will leave a yummy review telling me how much you like it, and why, so that I'll hurry and update). ;)

* * *

_and you know you're gonna lie to you_

_in your own way..._

_almost in love, in love..._

* * *

When Meroko was a little girl – when her hair was still dark and her world still solid – she used to see these charity Santas outside supermarkets.

The ring bounced in her ears as the cold nipped her nose...

...and she would extract her small, pink-mittened hand from her mother's. Her mother would rustle through her purse to find a quarter; Moe would take it and hand it demurely to the Santa. He would smile kindly at her. She would have helped Santa, and she would always reclaim her mother's hand to enter the supermarket.

The bell stopped ringing, and the Santa stared at her. He smiled kindly, simultaneously displaying teeth stained with nicotine.

"Money for the poor?"

Meroko's glazed eyes shifted to the collection jar.

_I should be asking that question_, she thought.

She dug through her pockets and handed him a quarter. She even mustered a wan smile.

"God bless you," the man said, "Happy holidays."

_Happy holidays. _

By the time Meroko stood in front of the ramen section, looking-but-not-really-looking, it clicked. Christmas was in roughly three weeks, with the New Year in little more than that.

She should have noticed, should have seen all the wreaths and red flowers and politically correct "Happy Christmas/Channukah/Kwanza/Nondenominational Winter" posters floating around. But she didn't. All she saw was her bleak little apartment. And Izumi. Everywhere.

Suddenly, without thinking, she walked away from the piles of instant soup and headed toward the baked goods section. She dug through her pocket again and found what she had, ten dollars. She grabbed the box that shined most with sugar and nearly ran to the counter. She waited behind a thin, short-haired black woman who held a child's hand.

She stared at the back of the woman's head for at least two minutes before she realized who was standing in front of her – buying milk and cereal and peanut butter and jelly and old bread and all the barest, most un-glamorous essentials. Her eyes got big and she tried to think of ways to hide herself.

Meroko was in the process of stuffing her distinctive pink hair into her knit cap when the woman walked out of the store. Meroko froze. Soleil paid in cash and coupons, said a quick "thank you", and took her bags. She walked away, gliding like a model and not looking back.

Meroko's heart beat rapidly. She looked ridiculous, frozen with half her hair tucked into her hat. The cashier turned her lazy stare to Meroko.

"Ma'am do you want to pay for those doughnuts in cash or credit?"

_Soleil. _Soleil, who stripped, who wore miniskirts and glitter eyeliner and stilettos that could grind a man's heart out.

"_Hey. _Are you paying for those or not? We don't deal with druggies here."

* * *

Meroko crept up the stairs, careful as always not to attract unwanted attention - until she heard a creaking, heading toward her. For a moment she felt vindicated. Then she felt fear.

She ran back down the stairs, holding onto her doughnuts for dear life.

The doorman, for once, was there, sitting behind his tiny black-and-white television. Basketball was on. His old eyes fell on Meroko large and protruding, making her uncomfortable.

'_HELP ME'_, she mouthed nevertheless. He looked back at her, puzzled, a doughnut halfway to his lips. Meroko's eyes darted around. They settled on his box of doughnuts. The one near his mouth was his last. Meroko jabbed a finger at the doughnut box squished to her chest. _Yours. _His eyebrows knit, but she could hear the footsteps, closer now, and before she and the doorman could exchange any further gestures, she dove behind the counter, crouching out of sight near the doorman's feet. He wore thick snowboots that smelled of rubber. Against her better judgment, and according to her impulsive nature, she peeked out just in time to see a pair of shoes coming down the stairs.

They were heels.

Meroko suddenly felt very stupid. A girl with runny mascara and tousled hair tripped down the steps, looking sleepy. Meroko sheepishly stood up, and was about to offer the doorman a doughnut (before he asked for other… services) when a voice behind her nearly made her jump:

"What are you doing?"

She turned to face Izumi.

"Um."

Izumi.

"I, um."

Izumi, whom she had slept with.

"Just… leaving…now…"

Who made her act about seven years old.

She dashed away, grateful not to hear his footsteps creaking on the stairs behind her. She gritted her teeth the entire way up, angry that she hadn't said something clever and sharp at the time. Stupid Izumi. He'd outsmarted her again. He came in through the front doors, snuck up on her.

At last she was safely in her room, mourning the squishing of her doughnuts (but preparing to eat the jelly one anyway) when she heard him outside her door. The hair on her arms stood up.

"Meroko. There's something I have to tell you."

Uh-oh. He wasn't calling her Me-chan, and for once his voice – for all its monotone – sounded serious.

"What… what is it?" She didn't open the door, but she inched toward it.

"I know we were protected when we had sex, but I have gonorrhea. I thought you should know."

A million different foul words popped into Meroko's mind, but only one popped out, in a screech worthy of a thousand wailing cats

"_Izumi_!"

She flung open the door, maybe to slap him, but he was smiling and she knew at once she'd been fooled.

"Just kidding. I'm perfectly clean. Hopefully I can say the same for you."

She bit her lip as her face turned purple-red, with frustration and embarrassment both. It was like being strangled – the words she wanted to say, the insults and the rebukes and the tears; they all choked her until she couldn't get air anymore. It was him who did this to her.

"You need to breathe, Me-chan. You also need to learn to take a joke."

"That's not a joke. That's serious. And this is stupid. I vowed never to talk to you again."

"Why?" Izumi stuck his foot in the doorway, all while maintaining eye contact with her. He unsettled her, and she looked away. "Because we parted on bad terms?"

He took his foot out of the doorway. It took a moment for him to find his words, just a second, even. Meroko didn't know why she kept the door open for even that long. "Might as well finish this. Get it over with. I don't think you want to run hiding every time I come along. It seems like an unpleasant way to live."

She shut the door on him, then, still screaming a thousand obscenities in her mind. It didn't matter that he was maybe a little bit right, she told herself, or that he seemed to have forgotten the way she'd childishly fought to take his mother's note. _You deserve better, _she told herself, _you're not going to take his scraps. _She wouldn't. No matter _how _much some stupid melty part of her that had done the nasty with him wanted to.

Jelly doughnut. Think about the doughnut, not the asshole on the other side of the door.

"Did you have doughnuts in there?"

She glared at the door for a minute before dead bolting it. She heard him snort, but moments later she heard his own door shutting.

She took a chomp of the jelly doughnut, but it was tasteless. Maybe because it was squished. _Anyway_, she thought, trying to be cheerful, _this is finished, all right.  


* * *

_

That night at the club she felt bloated, and Candy gave her a _look_ as she struggled into her skirt. All the girls laughed and Meroko nearly teared up right there in front of them. Instead she raised her chin like she'd seen the girls do in the movies and excused herself. She stood in front of the dingy restroom sink and stared into her reflection's eyes, willing them not to spill tears. Then her reflection's make up would be ruined. And the other girls would know.

When Meroko returned to the dressing room, Soleil was just putting away her things away in her locker. As she punched her time card, she cast Meroko a look. It was a look that said _Where were you?, _although Meroko was so preoccupied with her new found knowledge that she thought for a second it meant _I knew it was you behind me in line, acting like a stalker-freak and possessing suspicious knowledge of my child. _She was afraid of being found out, afraid of Soleil, who possessed more poise than Meroko had in her pinky checked the clock. Just a few minutes to nine. She'd almost been late.

She laced up the platforms that she left right up until the last minute. She was growing less shaky on them. She glanced up to Soleil's back, thinking of her child. The child – it was already growing blurry in Meroko's mind, the shock painting it in smeared watercolors.

Jessica nudged Meroko lightly in the side. "Just eat, like, nothing but water and bananas for the next few days. You'll get rid of it in no time. God, I wish I was as skinny as you." Meroko, in turn, looked enviously down at Jessica's chest.

"Thanks," she said. She meant it.

"So, are you, like, on your period, or are you just cranky?"

Meroko bit her lip. She wasn't sure how much she wanted to tell her coworker. But Jessica – Jessica was always nice, probably about her age. Friend material. Not that Meroko needed friends. She did, however, very much need people to listen to her whine.

"I slept with this guy," she admitted.

Jessica's mouth did not drop open. She did not cry out in shock. "So?"

"So…" Meroko grasped to explain the situation. "I liked him a lot, but he's a jerk. And he's acting like nothing happened, but also like everything happened. Because he avoids me. Or at least, I'm avoiding him, but I think he's kind of been avoiding me, too. We don't even talk anymore, even though this stupid guy and I never really got along in the first place. And I only knew him for a week before we slept together." She left out the whole saving-her-life (sort of) part, because she didn't even want to acknowledge it. Besides. It was coincidence.

If he'd known she was dying, he would have stayed far away and saved himself the trouble. Knowing him even as shallowly as she did, Meroko could discern one thing about him: Izumi liked to stay away from other people's entanglements (okay, she also knew that he was a neat freak with nice, shabby shoes, who liked to wear yellow shirts, and who had probably tried to kill himself before).

Too bad Izumi had gotten tangled in hers. It was probably why he was avoiding her.

"Ouch," Jessica said. "That's tough." She chewed on her lip. "You know, my boyfriend, when we slept together for the first time, I was so worried. I thought, 'What if I disappointed him? What if he's done with me now?' I've had way too many men like that. And I liked him, and I didn't want him to be the same." She paused. "I guess it's kind of different for you. But it's sort of the same, too."

"This guy's not my boyfriend," Meroko said sullenly, "Not even close."

Jessica shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. Except maybe you should get drunk. Sometimes that helps. Until you get hungover."

"I'm not twenty-one," Meroko said, remembering Candy's stringent alcohol policy.

"Oh, come on. You know she's practically the only club owner who actually _discourages _her employees from drinking alcohol?" Jessica glanced at the clock, and jumped out of her seat. "Ooooh, shit. We're gonna be late, Bunny."

"Meroko," Meroko said. The choking feeling in her throat was going away. "You can call me Meroko if you want."

"Cool," Jessica said, brightly, as she punched in her time card. "So, is that, like, your real name? Are you Chinese or something?"

"Japanese," she said, "And yeah."

Soleil frowned, but Jessica and two of the other girls, who were okay – Ashleigh and Jasmine or Janette or something like that – got her a cosmo, but it made her mouth pucker. So Jessica got her a strawberry daiquiri instead. Meroko actually liked it. It was better than the stupid wine, the taste of which still mingled with sultry, bitter memories of Izumi.

Izumi.

Her eyes must have dampened, because one of the men was rubbing her back like she was sick, so she sniffed and told him she was fine, and they all bleated out sweet nothings to get the pretty, scantily-clad girl to smile. She obliged and, feeling dizzy and suddenly very giggly again, she offered to take a turn on the pole (she didn't know even faintly how to pole dance, although she had taken ballet until she was sixteen). One man tugged her back by the wrist on her way to the pole.

"What?" she said, through giggles. She realized it was Poophead. She didn't really care. Faintly, through the alcohol, she was surprised that he had come back.

"Bunny – can I – can I talk to you?"

His words reminded her of Izumi's, in a weird, roundabout way.

"Only if you don't tell me you have an STD." She laughed. And laughed, and laughed. He tugged her down into the seat next to him. Some of the men she'd been sitting with booed at her side. She booed back at them, and laughed again.

He was suddenly holding her close, pulling her onto his lap. Ew. Was he… he _was. _She made a face and tried to tug herself away, but he held her fast, and she was too tipsy to bother much resistance.

"Ew," she said, aloud, then hiccupped. And hiccupped again. She held her breath, and he took her hand, guided it downward.

She jerked it away and stood up.

"Stop it!" she said. The alcohol emboldened her, made her volatile. "I'm not even a virgin, you know. I don't know, do you even want me anymore?"

"Bunny," he mumbled, sounding embarrassed. "I want you. And can you be a little quieter?"

"Is that all guys ever want-? For a girl to shut up and-?" But he had taken both her hands, grasping them tight, and even though she jerked away he was holding on and she couldn't go.

She yelped, a little bit; she expected Candy would come and find her and this time it would be really be her job – and would that really be a bad thing? – when a hand appeared on Poophead's shoulder and she looked up.

"Can you get away from her, please? She sounds upset."

Poophead craned his neck back to see the young man. He also loosened his grip on Meroko's wrists. She stepped jerkily away, but her eyes were stuck on the stranger. There was something familiar about him, but all the dark and the flashing lights made it hard to see him – except to distinguish that he was attractive, as well as young. Her heart sped up a little. _I think I know him. Do I know him? _The alcohol wasn't helping the recognition, or softening the sudden, potent infatuation.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Poophead stared at him with distaste. "You don't understand what's going on; I hardly think that you can stick your nose into this –"

The man leaned down so that he was eye-to-eye with Poophead. "Look. The girl's upset. This isn't some kind of foreplay, so don't try and pass it off as that. You're harassing her. These places have rules."

There was a long pause. Then, weakly: "You think you're a hotshot, don't you?"

"I don't think I'm anything," the man said, sounding suddenly dejected and passionate. "But apparently you think you're worth something. You're scum. Get away from her."

Poophead opened his mouth to protest, but the young man was taking off his jacket, in a way that suggested he was ready to fight. Poophead gave a last look to Meroko before gingerly standing.

"I don't want a fight," he mumbled, lingering.

"Believe me when I say I do," the man replied.

Poophead left. The young man retreated, alone, to the bar, where Jasmine or Jaslene or whatever-her-name-was prompty seated herself next to him. Meroko could only watch in awe.

Her knight in white armor. Protecting her, respecting her, like some degenerate men never would.

She had just made a mistake. A little kink in the road. She thought Izumi was the one, but this man – clearly, this was a man who would respect her. Take care of her. Even, she admitted to herself, if it was just for one night.

She took her first steps toward him when she felt another touch on her arm, this one firm but decidedly female. She turned to see Soleil.

"There's a man outside who wants to see you." She paused. Meroko's face must have expressed her utter dread, because Soleil added, "A young man."

"Who?"

"He says his name is Rio Izumi, and that you know him."

Meroko's heart jumped. She could've screamed, partially with disgust at herself.

"I don't," she said, and it was only half a lie, like she had lied to Jessica about her name. "Just… I don't want to see him, okay?"

She turned back to the stranger, but Soleil grabbed her arm again. "Is he the reason you're drunk?"

"I'm not drunk. I only had two drinks."

Soleil shrugged sharply. Shrugging seemed to be her response to everything.

Meroko shook off the unsettling feelings that Soleil left her with and moved toward her knight in shining armor. She took the seat that Jaslene or Janette had temporarily vacated, leaned toward him, and smiled coquettishly. "What's up?"

He took a sip of his drink and glanced at her. "You're drunk."

"Nope, just tipsy. Thanks for helping me back there."

He looked at her again. "You're welcome."

"I really appreciate it."

"Is that why you're flirting with me?"

She giggled, trying to hide her nervousness behind the mello façade of alcohol. "Yeah, and you're cute. And… I really like you."

The girl with the 'j' name returned. "Hey, Jasmine, I took your seat. Hope that's okay."

Jasmine didn't look happy. In fact, she looked pissed. "It's not. And it's Jasna, stupid."

"I'm not stupid," Meroko protested, "just tipsy."

She could see the man shaking his head.

"Look," Meroko said. As Jasna walked away, the floaty feeling in her body floated away, and Meroko was left a little more grounded. "You want to come back to my place?"

He examined her. She smiled, tried to be desirable upon examination. In the meantime, she examined him. She couldn't tell why it was, but he looked so, _so _familiar. He had blue eyes, a short ponytail, and an ethnic look that she couldn't quite place in the dark.

"Sure you don't want to come back to mine?"

She smiled wider, leaned up against him. "It's okay." She wasn't thinking straight. Her place was a mess. Any place was better than hers. "I get off in three hours."

She stumbled out into the night three hours later with the stranger. Her lips met his. He was a gentle kisser, but he seemed tentative, almost impersonal. As though he was gentle and romantic out of principle. He wasn't like Izumi, at least, where the kiss was the opposite, personal and cold. Like he was hurting her, only her, with every nip and every shove. _But I'm not comparing, _she told herself forcefully, _I'm not going to think about him. _He was gone. Poof. Out of the picture. Good thing he hadn't waited for her outside the club, or worse, come in. She would've killed herself. For real.

They walked under the streetlights back to her crappy apartment. His hand was under her shirt; he rubbed the small of her back as they walked. For once, she actually felt safe on the walk home. No one bothered them, or called out things to her like they did some nights.

She thought someone might have been following her, but when she looked back she saw nothing, and realized that she was being silly. Her paranoia melted away with him. She snuggled closer to his shoulder as they walked. As the streets grew dingier, the pressure on her back increased. She liked that he was concerned.

"We could've gone back to my place," he said. "I could get a taxi…"

She hadn't had a taxi in ages. It would've made her feel like a princess, but he already did that. "You don't have to," she said. "It's almost morning, for one thing, and second, I'm not going to make you pay for a taxi or anything." The fact that he offered was enough for her.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but he refrained.

She giggled. The alcohol hadn't quite worn off, and her body still buzzed. "So where's 'your place' anyway?"

"I'm from out of town."

"Ooh, a motel?"

"Sort of."

"Maybe it would've been better than my place." She stopped and nodded at the building in front of them. The alcohol made her want to crack up, but she was too embarrassed for even that.

"It doesn't matter," he said, and his voice, nihilistic and flat, said that it didn't. He kissed her again, briefly, and they trudged up the stairs together. On one flight she sidled up to him against the wall, starting touching him. He gently pushed her away, until they got to her apartment. As soon as she locked the door he was on her, pressed against her, kissing her.

She took off her coat and felt the freezing air make contact with her bare arms. Ugh. _Note to self: stop wearing camisoles in the winter. _He was running his hands along her waist, under her shirt, up and down, trying to feel for curves that weren't there. She pressed even harder against him, could feel him. He lowered her to her mattress.

The mattress was strewn messily with blankets. She hadn't planned for this, and for a split-second she worried about it being messy. But she could tell by the way he kissed her that he didn't care. He wasn't some stupid neat-freak like – _but I'm not thinking about him_.

She was feeling for his fly when she realized she needed to use the restroom.

Badly.

_Damn cocktails._

"Um-" she murmured, although at first he couldn't distinguish her mumbles from moans – "Um, I'm sorry. I have to, er. Go the bathroom." He leaned back, and in the darkness, she thought she saw him blink.

"Oh. Okay. I'll wait here."

She thought that was very generous of him, and filed it away as reason number 72 that she was totally justified in sleeping with him.

She went quickly, but took a moment to stare at her reflection. _See_, she told herself, _this is what a good man can do for you. _She wasn't crying anymore. She had a flush in her cheeks and a sexy, hungry look in her eyes. She opened the door of the bathroom, ready to sidle up to him and resume the hot and heavy. But in the faint, steady light of the bathroom, she finally got a good look at his face. And she recognized him.

The Route L poster hanging near her mattress kind of helped.

"Ohmygod," she said, her words coming out as one incoherent blob. Like jelly. Suddenly, everything seemed very bright and her head hurt. Maybe it was a sudden, acute hangover. Maybe it was just the knowledge that she'd almost had a one-night stand with Takuto Kira.


	8. god that was strange

10/9/09: This was supposed to be just the first half of chapter 8, but I'm just posting it as its own, short chapter. Enjoy. The next one should be posted… some time. Probably in December. : ) Suggestions, speculation, comments, and hopefully praise are always welcome in the form of reviews.

* * *

_god that was strange to see you again_

_introduced by a friend of a friend_

_smiled and said "yes, I think we've met before"_

_in that instant it started to pour

* * *

  
_

Meroko shut the door quietly behind her. She winced as it creaked, even going so far as to shush it. Biting her lip, she set her suitcase down, fumbled for her key, and locked the door with a click.

"What're you doing?"

She jumped, but didn't turn around.

"Me-chan? Ignoring me again? This is blatant. Even for you."

"Creep, much? _God_," she gritted out, "Do you have any life besides stalking me?"

She turned, furious, only to find him smiling.

"The stalking is incidental. Mostly I just like to see you angry."

"Asshole." She noticed that his smile was tight today, and that there was something odd in his eyes. Instead of the saccharine expression usually contained there, they were harder and darker. She bit her lip and looked down at her suitcase.

"Are you skipping town? Are you pregnant? I don't want to take responsibility. It could be another man's."

Meroko felt a shiver go up her neck, but she ignored it.

"I am _not _pregnant. And I'm not skipping town."

"I didn't know strippers could afford vacations."

"Stop bothering me! What I do is none of your business!" Then, upon consideration: "And I'm _not _a stripper! I'm a waitress at a burlesque club! It's _totally _different!"

She took her suitcase and stomped down the steps, but she could hear him – feel him – walking a few paces behind her. She gritted her teeth and tried not to look around.

"Do you want some help with your suitcase?"

She didn't answer.

"Meroko," he said. She didn't answer.

"Meroko."

"Get away from me."

"Meroko."

She turned around. She was trying not to cry. "Don't come near me again. Don't come near my work again. Stay _away _from me."

She stood there, all worked up, waiting for him to respond. He just stood there with his trademark flat expression. "Is that all?"

"Okay," she said, lamely, "Well. Never talk to me again. I'm coming back, but I don't want to see you when I do."

She continued down the steps, but she couldn't feel him walking behind her anymore. Huh. She glanced behind her. He was still standing in the same place, staring at the wall. Wait. Was he really going to let her go? With nary a sarcastic word or snide comment?

Maybe things really were finished.

A little part of Meroko felt dizzy at the thought.

A bus ride later, Meroko found herself in an entirely different part of the city. People bustled along the tree-lined sidewalks. The cars were nicer, newer, and shinier, and the buildings were in good repair. No one catcalled her as she walked. Best of all, despite the posh surroundings, this was one area that Meroko had never come to with her mother on their shopping trips. Perfect.

Meroko tentatively entered the hotel, nearly tip-toeing. She suddenly felt aware of how shabby she looked – how she hadn't washed her hair in three days. Her clothes… she didn't even want to talk about how terrible they must've looked. She'd been to the laundramat – what, once?

"Hello?"

The receptionist, a clean-cut man in a clean-cut blue uniform, looked up at her, then looked her up and down. "Can I help you?"

"Um, yes. I have a room? 375?"

His expression changed. Not for the better. Now he looked at her with a mix of incredulity and suspicion. "That's one of our best suites."

"In Takuto Kira's name? I'm okay to go. Meroko. Meroko Yui. You can let me up."

She held her breath and hoped he wouldn't ask for ID. Her driver's license read 'Moe Rikyu'.

Instead the receptionist sniffed and typed something into the computer before him. Meroko held her breath until she could hear her heart in her chest, thumping. He clicked something with the mouse. Click, click, click.

He looked up at her again.

"Welcome, Miss Yui. If you leave late, Mr. Kira will cover all your bills, but the room is only booked until checkout tomorrow at eleven. Please enjoy your stay."

Breathless, Meroko took the key and fairly skipped into the elevator. She ignored the odd looks directed at her – at either her hair or her enthusiasm, she couldn't tell.

The first thing she did was throw the suitcase on the floor and flop onto the bed. Aaaaah. She snuggled into the sheets. Heaven. They were warm, thanks to the heating. Aaaaah. Heating. Meroko lay in bliss, totally still, for at least a minute, before springing up and running to the bathroom.

God, this suite was _huge. _Never had Meroko seen a hotel room so big, not even when she still went on vacations with her parents.

A warm, tingling happiness filled her. She could take a shower. A hot shower. No – a _bath. _A bubble bath! And then she could make the complimentary coffee. Hell, she was feeling decadent – she could do both at once! Mmm… warm coffee.

Grinning from ear to ear, Meroko went to the bathroom went to draw a warm bath, ooh-ing and aaah-ing at every luxury on the way (fluffy white towels! Marble tiles! Perfumed soap! Jacuzzi jets!). As the bath drew, she explored the room further. She was too pleased to question the bizarre situation she found herself in.

She turned on the radio. An eighties dance song was playing; Meroko wiggled along as she prepared the coffee. There was an envelope on the table, with her name written on it in messy caps. MEROKO. She picked it up and opened it.

It was from Takuto, of course. It was money. She squealed so loud that it rang through the room. She did a a hybrid hop-wiggle, clutching the envelope to her heart as she danced.

_New dresses. Food. Heat. Electricity. _In that order.

After the warm bath, Meroko put on the fluffy white robe and sat at the window sill, sipping her hot coffee and staring out at the soft snowflakes outside. It was the first time she'd seen snow in the city. Until now it had all been ice and and slush. And lots of cold cold rain. She pressed her forehead to the cold glass. It was the first time she'd felt peace since she came here, here where everything was dirty and mean. Izumi came to mind, but it wasn't just him – it was everything here. Everything she'd taken for granted, as gentle and civil – here it was all difficult and harsh.

Was she-? She quietly felt for her cheeks, noticing that her coffee cup was shaking, just a little. She was crying.

* * *

_Takuto Kira. _

Her face went from a flush to a bright red to a weird sort of ill-looking pale-pink.

"You," she said, her voice wavering, "You're Takuto Kira."

He looked away from her then, down at the blanket. His expression didn't change. It was blank but not like – ugh, stop thinking about him! It was blank, but the sort of blankness that, now, Meroko knew was meant to hide something else.

"Yeah," he said, and in the feeble light it was a pathetic answer.

She just stood there, her mouth open stupidly. "But – Takuto Kira –"

It added up. Kind of. He was out of town; he had looked familiar. He had even sounded familiar, although he hadn't said much.

"Aren't you supposed to be… on… tour, or something?"

He looked up at her and she realized that his blank face was about to crack. Her heart swelled for him.

"Technically," he said. Another pathetic answer.

She situated herself on the edge of the mattress so she was sitting about a yard away from him.

"I-I don't know what to say…." She trailed off. The quick dart of her eyes to her Route L poster gave her away, and he laughed wrly, although she'd been sure that he'd been looking at the ground and not at her.

Somehow (maybe because he already knew) it spilled out. "I'm a huge fan. You wouldn't believe how much Route L's affected my life… I mean, I know it's stupid, but I really… I _love _you." She didn't know how to properly convey all the admiration and feeling that Route L brought her. "I listened to your music through some really difficult periods in my life, and it's helped me a lot." She paused, then bit her lip. Breaking any facades of privacy, she went on. "When I was raped. And when I was having trouble with my parents. And when I left home." Her lip quivered, and he stared at her, eyes wide. Then he turned to stare, unblinking, at his hands, before burying his face in them.

"I'm sorry. Maybe they'll get back together in a few years. Without me. Can't blame Aoi and Keichii if they want to keep playing…" his chin quivered and suddenly Meroko knew.

He crumpled over and set his head in his hands. _He's crying, _Meroko knew, _he's crying, _and Meroko could only stare down at him, eyes hollow in an attempt to resist her own tears. She tentatively scooted closer to him. She rubbed his back, mechanically, up-down, up-down.

"I'm going to die. If I don't get the operation." His voice cracked as he spoke. When raised his face to her, Meroko saw the traces of tears. "But if I do, I don't know if I can live. Singing's been the only thing that's made me feel _worth _anything in my entire life."

Meroko remembered something she read in a tabloid, about him hopping from foster-home to foster-home as a child. At the time she'd thought it was sad. She realized now that it was heartbreaking.

Her own tears spilled out, but she thought he was already too far gone to notice her. For the first time, he wasn't Takuto, some idol and some perfect being. He was sad. He was pitiful. And his sadness was becoming hers, because here he was _here_.

His voice became a whisper, as if he didn't really want her to hear. "I was going to jump of the building tonight. Down a few drinks, jump of a building. That was the plan. You – that guy was harassing you." As if this made perfect sense. "And I figured – sure." Meroko realized what she was: a stripper who'd offered to take this man home. She was a last hurrah. _But I don't want to be a last hurrah, _she thought, suddenly overwhelmed, and her tears nearly became audible before she forced them down.

"Y-you should keep going," she said, not convincingly, even to herself. _Hypocrite. _"You should keep trying. Things might get better."

He looked up at her again, eyes wide. They searched her face, and she smiled weakly.

"It's terminal."

"But there's more to life… maybe you can keep going and find something that's worth it. Maybe… Some_one_ who's worth it. Who knows?"

He stared at her a little more and then, slowly, he stood up.

"Thank you," he said. Her heart jumped. He was leaving. Just like that, he was leaving. And maybe he was going to jump off a building tonight, and it would be all her fault. Feverishly, she reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"You need to live. What you've done means so much to so many people. And your bandmates – Keichii and Aoi - they're like family to you, right? They're like family…."

Meroko trailed off, thinking of her own family. Her mother and father, who hardly spoke to her, and then could hardly look at her.

Softly, gently, Takuto pried her hand of his arm. Her arm fell into her lap like a limp, dead limb, and he stared at her for a moment before leaning down and tucking a lock of hair out of her face.

"You're crying," he said softly, and she realized that she was.

"I'm serious," she warned. He mustered a smile and dug into his pocket. He spilled cash into her hands, and she looked at him disbelievingly. "One sec," he said, digging out a pencil and a receipt. He wrote something on the blank side and handed it to her. She looked and him dubiously. And worriedly.

"I'm leaving, but the hotel room's booked for another day." The look in his eyes expressed pity, and a grudging, masked chivalry she'd already come to associate with him. She almost laughed, that he pitied her, and then she realized that if he was bad off then she was at least fifty times worse. She wasn't rich _or_ famous, for one thing. So she took his money and let him leave, staring at the address a little before a yawn escaped her and, after an hour of fitful tossing and turning, she fell asleep under her mess of blankets, dreaming. Not of Takuto Kira or of Izumi, even, but of her mother and father when things were safe and warm, and then when they weren't.


	9. didn't mean it

3/18/10: Read and review. Mostly enjoy. I've decided I'll compile the 'playlist' at the end of the story (who knows when that'll be?). So... look forward to it?

* * *

_you come across impure_

_you're god damn immature_

_you act so insecure_

_you hate me now, I'm sure_

_(I didn't mean it)_

_slacker, bitch_

_fag-hag, whore;_

_looks real cute_

_her lips are sore_

_always knocking on my door_

* * *

The television, the newest addition to Meroko's household, seemed to sparkle and smile at its inclusion to the family. _Welcome, _Meroko was tempted to say as she stared at it, _say hi to my shiny red kettle and my dirty mattres. Hi, dirty mattress!_

With a sigh that sounded a rather lot like death and heaven wrapped in one, Meroko reached out and pressed the 'on' button. The battery-operated, worn little thing flickered into black-and-white life.

"-apologized recently for the destruction caused during their regime-"

International news, Meroko thought distastefully.

_Next._

"- impeached, in what is now being called a full-fledged sex scandal-"

She wished the television would stop talking to her about the president's sex scandal. He should have known better than to ever have sex, being president. Only stupid people had sex, or else very outstanding people who were perfect for each other. Whose bodies fit together instead of being a messy, cold tangle.

Meroko, at twenty, had finally learned her lesson the hard way, because apparently she didn't learn it the first time. It was worse than a national scandal – it was Izumi, and it only brought a whole load of embarrassment and hassle, and feelings and pain.

She yawned and leaned back on her shoddy mattress, drawing the little television closer even as she did. She tried to make herself as comfortable as she could. Through her thin sweater she could feel the hard springs.

She flipped the channel.

At first, nothing remarkable appeared, and then a girl came on, a woman, really, only about Meroko's age but with all the grace and height that Meroko lacked. Her lips were red and full and perfectly painted. Her eyes were the blue of watercolors. Her hair was the blonde of summers.

All this, Meroko saw even in black-and-white.

Although, she thought, it helped that she'd seen her somewhere before. In a tabloid, she was sure, holding hands with some pretty boy and looking hounded. But her hair had been different, then. Longer, less blonde. Who was she? Meroko's weary thoughts didn't catch up to the screen quickly enough.

"Hikari, we're so glad to have you today –"

She laughed, a laugh that was like the lightest chime of the most paradoxical funeral bell.

"I'm glad to be here, I really am. I'm sorry, it's just a little hard-"

Sympathetic murmurs rippled through the talk show crowd, and the host leaned in to convey sympathy. Meroko could see that the crook of his neck was like a vulture's. His bony elbows, too, resembled the joints in wings. Meroko shuddered.

"It's okay. We understand." A hesitant pause, not hesitant at all. "It has to be hard, with your boyfriend gone."

A wave of nausea went through Meroko.

Hikari's beautiful face fell on screen, and she looked to the vulture host with a wrinkle in her forehead. The fault on her face could move anyone to tears.

"I have no idea. It's something – something I'd rather not talk about to the public. It's too private. But, basically, as I'm sure you all know, he was diagnosed with throat cancer and… and I haven't seen him since. I miss him so much. If he's watching this, I want him to know that there's someone out there who loves him, and wants him back. If he's even still – still –"

The crowd stayed silent, their sympathy palpable even through the screen. Hikari's lip trembled beautifully. Suddenly the vulture host leaned back from Hikari and let out a low whistle. "Takuto Kira, front man of the decade's greatest grunge band-"

Meroko couldn't stand him anymore, and she turned the TV off, shoving it away. She turned over on the mattress, felt the springs digging into her side, her mind whirring.

_Route L isn't grunge,_ she thought, _it's post-grunge. There's a big difference!_

Whirrring, whirring whirring.

That wasn't it.

_Why spend his last night with me when he could have gone home to Hikari? To a beautiful model who apparently loves him more than life itself? Was that why he was feeling for curves when he was touching me? Why couldn't he just be touching me? What if he's dead? What if I didn't save him? What will I do? What if the police come looking for me? What if Hikari knows? She can't know, right?_

Desperate for a distraction, Meroko peered out her (barred) window. Only the edges of sunlight remained, mostly consumed by the early winter twilight. Was it six yet? Five fourty-five – good enough, time to go. Mumbling a little, Meroko pulled herself off the mattress. She had just put on her coat, and was tugging her galoshes on over her jeans, when she realized she ought to make sure the coast was clear. Right. That way, if Izumi was around, she could wait till he was gone. _Good idea, _she reminded herself.

Meroko peeked out the peep hole. She forever feared that he would still be there, but since she'd told him to piss off… he'd pissed off. And it left her worried and more anxious than ever. Instead of leaving her with relief, he left her waiting on edge, ready for him to pounce.

She opened the door. It creaked a mighty creaky when she did. She flinched at the sound and looked up, and then she let out a little sound of fear.

A thin, hunched-over woman stood there, clutching at her jacket. She turned to face Meroko. Her brow was furrowed, wrinkled, but just barely. Her chin jutted from her thinness, making her face into a sharp heart. Her hair was blonde. Meroko saw the dun roots where it had grown since her last dye job.

A yellow note. In her hand.

Meroko stared at her for a minute, then shut the door softly behind her.

"Hello," she said. "You must be his… Izumi's mother."

The woman turned to her, then, straightened a bit. Her brow scrunched up.

"Who are you?"

"Oh. I. Um. Live across from him." She stupidly indicated her apartment. "Yup. Right here."

Izumi's mother looked at Meroko. She held the note in her hand. It seemed ostentatiously bright, all of a sudden. She must have noticed Meroko staring, because she moved the paper just slightly out of view. It made a crinkling sound.

"I can give that to him, if you'd like," Meroko offered.

"I can give it to him myself. Thank you. Do you know him personally? My son?"

_My son. _

Meroko gritted her teeth at the thought of him. But then, in a rare flash of insight, she realized that ranting about Izumi to his mother was the way she was least likely to learn about him.

"Yes," she said, trying to gush, but sounding a little strange and strained, "Oh, yes, we're friends. Sometimes we have dinner together. Strictly as friends, though. Yeah, we don't know each other _that _well, or anything, but I see him every day. " _Not a lie, until she'd told him to go away. _

_Also, she had known him very intimately, if you counted the biblical way._

Izumi's mother blinked slowly. "Oh." She sounded dispirited. Meroko was confused – wouldn't a mother like to hear that her (antisocial, unlikable) son had some friends?

"What's wrong?"

Izumi's mother shook her head. "It's nothing," she said, a bit waspishly, "I'll give this to him, then."

Watching her tape up the carefully folded note (folding which was accompanied by a look in Meroko's direction), Meroko recalled the woman's son. He used jerky movements like that, too, when he was irate.

Meroko and Izumi's mother ended up standing in the hallway, looking at one another – Meroko blankly, Izumi's mother questioningly – until Izumi's mother swallowed her suspicion and trod down the staircase.

Meroko stared at the note for a moment.

Suddenly, she didn't want to read it. Opening that letter was opening a can of worms related to someone for whom she no longer cared. Opening that letter was splitting open the head of whatever went on between Izumi and his mother, and Meroko wanted no part of it.

Instead she walked down the stairs, tried to forget, and tried to hope.

* * *

At the club, Meroko stared as Candy – Candy! – swirled around the pole with a kind of stomach muscle and grace that was rare to her little costume-club.

She cocked her head at Meroko. "I'm not as old as you think," she said, as she sat down to rest on the edge of the stage. Only a trace of heavy breathing punctured her statement.

"Cigarettes," she apologized.

Meroko stared at her with so much awe that Candy rolled her eyes.

"You want to give it a go?"

Meroko opened her mouth to say no, before realizing that she had agreed to come here, already promised herself to trying. She remembered those years and years of ballet. She had been well-made – flat-chested, thin, small, arch-footed – but had little determination for the art of dance in itself. Most weeks she only went because her mother made her. And her mother made her go because Meroko had to quit violin, her other bankable extracurricular, at ten, when it became apparent that that she had no violin talent whatsoever.

She went to the pole and tried to pull herself up.

"You don't start that way," Candy said. A raspy laugh escaped her, and she rearranged Meroko.

Almost like a mother.

Meroko allowed her heart one sad pitter-patter before she tried to focus on what Candy was telling her. Tilt your head. Look at me. Are you listening? Meroko? Meroko was not prone to listening, but she tried.

She thought of the other mother, Izumi's mother. Her face, sharp like a badly cut valentine. The ever-present, jaundiced paper on Izumi's door.

Meroko thought of Takuto. She wondered if he was lying in a gutter somewhere. The image flew all too readily to her mind's eye, but she shooed it away.

She tried a twist and fell on her butt. She yelped a little, more startled by the break in her train of thought than by the fall itself.

Candy helped her up.

"You've got grace," she said, in what nearly sounded like a compliment.

Meroko would tend to disagree, but it still filled her with the glow of approval.

As she trudged home (stomach muscles already feeling sore; inner thighs already torn with rusty muscles back in use) Meroko thought of the club and learning how to dance. It filled her with butterflies. For the first time in a long time, she was sore from something other than feelings, her face flush from endorphins instead of shame.

She smiled.

Maybe this was something she could do right.

She'd always known she'd never cut it as a ballerina. She fumbled and stiffened where the other girls moved with perfect, precise grace.

_The pink tutu feels scratchy clutched in her white fist. _

_She can't see her mother in the crowd. The bright lights burn out the rest of the darkness, and all she can see is a fireball. _

_Her underarms perspire – from heat or nerves, probably both. That area of her leotard is warm, wet, and sticky._

_One, two three four._

_Sarah spins and dips and finishes in a perfect swirl._

_Five, six, seven, eight._

_Now. _

_Meroko looks down and watches her feet, willing them not to make a wrong move, but in the first three beats she trips – on her own feet or a nail in the floor, maybe both - and then stumbles through the rest of the movement. _

_Cold fear fills her._

_She looks up._

She looks up.

"You look disconcerted."

She's stares at him.

"Why do you look so surprised? It's not as though this doesn't happen." An odd silence stood between them. "I thought you would be working at this hour," he added.

"Night off. I thought you were gone for good."

"I see, so you're taking back your whole 'never talk to me again, Izumi!' thing?"

She wrinkled her nose.

"My voice isn't that high."

"So you claim."

"You know, you're right, I _don't _know why I'm talking to you."

She tried to go up the stairs, pushing him aside.

"Oh, yeah." She glanced back, then smiled smugly. Her last round of ammunition – but she would shoot with an acute eye. "You saw the note that your mother left you, didn't you?"

His voice went sour. "Yes. I did. Thank you for bringing that to my attention."

She nodded with mock cheer. "Happy to be of service."

"Of course you are," he said, and something in the way he said it made her stop, turn around, and frown.

"What?"

He shrugged, but now it was _him _who smiled smugly, although his smile, as always, twisted in insidious ways that hers never would.

"No, really, what?" Her hand traced the railing as she slowly moved closer. Approaching the predator with caution.

He beckoned her closer, and foolishly (though reluctantly) she complied.

The few feet of distance between them was apparently not satisfactory, because he moved even closer, then, and, slowly, his arm snaked out until his palm rested on the wall near her head.

She stiffened completely as his closeness, shut off, almost, because she didn't run , either. Stupid, stupid prey.

She wrenched her eyes off of Izumi and fixed them, instead, on the wall across from her.

The stain suddenly looked very familiar.

_Takuto. _

Then he drew away cleanly, like he'd done no more than say hello.

"I thought you might remember," he said.

She does.

"As happy as you are to be of service, maybe you should wait until you get to your room to start to start dry-humping the boys you pick up at your workplace."

She felt sick.

_No,_ she thought, the bile turning, for the first time, to anger, _No. It's him who's sick. _

In a very tiny voice, she replied. "Maybe you should find something better to do than stalk me." A tiny bit louder. "Maybe you should be a little nicer to the girls you have sex with."

He gave her a backward glance.

"I usually am."

She wanted to vomit, all over his shoes, all over again. All over his stupid smug face. _Just start this over. _

What was wrong with her? She hadn't done anything wrong. It was him. Him who – she realized – who must have waited outside of Neon, even after she'd told Soleil to turn him away, and followed her home that night. What a creep.

"I didn't even have sex with him," she said, but now here voice was no more than a whisper, and Izumi was long gone.

Izumi, master of pain, knew full well how to ruin a good afternoon.


	10. and you don't need a boyfriend!

a/n 6/6/10: Review and I will love you forever. Tell me what you like and don't like - critical feedback helps me to write a better story. Just be nice and always include the 'like' because that's the part I _really _want to hear.

* * *

_Another drama by the kitchen sink tonight_

_You said you'd cut yourself whilst washing up the knives_

_Another week off school won't do you any good_

_I know how it feels to be your age_

_Nineteen_

_You're only nineteen for God's sake_

_And you don't need a boyfriend!_

* * *

Meroko had a cockroach problem.

They were everywhere. She'd known when she'd bought the property that it wasn't vermin-free – nothing this cheap in the city was – but they'd stuck to the corners, occasionally scurrying across the floor, much to her horror.

She'd screamed the first time she found one in her sink.

"You need to buy poison," Izumi said, deadpan, when she explained to him why she'd been screaming. "Just don't drink it yourself."

He thought he was _so funny, _making his un-subtle little references to her suicide attempt. She'd scowled in reply and shut the door on him. It wasn't like she needed his help or anything. What did he think – that she'd tried to kill herself again? No one commiting suicide screamed! He just wanted to come over and make fun of her. He probably knew it was a cockroach. She wondered if his house had cockroaches in it. It was so clean, but cleanliness couldn't stop an infection once it was in full force.

She tried poison. It didn't work.

Finding them in her sink was now becoming rote. They alarmed her less, although they still disgusted her. Sometimes, after a particularly hard night at work, she had trouble sleeping. She wondered if they crawled over her in her sleep. It made her wary, but she'd yet to catch them at it.

She dreamed of Izumi, all white and naked and tangled in covers, like the morning she'd woken up and stared at him, although in her dream it was from a bird's eye and everything was surreally bright. Especially his eyes, when he opened them.

He touched her, laid her down. She felt like she couldn't speak. Everything got dark. She felt his fingers on her collarbone.

When she woke up the next morning, she stifled a shriek at the fat roach at the foot of her bed, on its back. Dead.

She touched her collarbone, flinched.

Meroko had a roach problem, and she didn't know what to do about it.

* * *

Meroko refused. It was about all she could come up with – but she refused, more or less anything to do with him. Ever. Again.

And then she realized that, despite her pact, he still consumed her thought. So Meroko realized, in a burst of genius, that she had to forget him and move on if she could truly wanted to. If she truly wanted to spite him.

With a smile forced enough to look frightening, Meroko graced the work room. The girl with the J-name that she still couldn't remember was laughing loudly with another girl as Meroko walked in.

She turned her tight, wide smile on them without looking. She found her costume on its usual hanger, dressed quickly, and then set her attention to lacing her boots. They felt extra-heavy today.

Another laugh – Meroko risked a glance in the J-girl's direction. A flash of blonde curls; a glossy magazine page turning. Jessica! The traitor! She abandoned Meroko for J-name and some trashy gossip rags! Meroko concentrated very hard on her laces, pulling them a bit too tightly and quickly – Then she realized that she wanted a peek at the gossip mags (the last ones she'd read had been accompanied by nausea and an Izumi-induced ice-cream binge). So she untied the laces and started over, going more slowly, this time, until she heard two punches of two time cards and the open-close of the door. The departure of giggles.

With the room empty, Meroko suddenly felt lonely. She finished her laces more slowly than she had intended, then got up and went to Jessica and J-name's abandoned corner.

The magazine was open to a double-page spread on how to have great sex. Meroko steeled herself agains thte temptation to read it and flipped ahead a couple of pages. A Gucci purse she could never buy. Tall, blonde, curved women that Meroko could never be. A pA page on music and books. Meroko skimmed it. She had little interest in reading; the 'fresh face' of the month was a pop ingénue younger than Meroko with the face of an angel and long, blonde hair. She seemed pure and sweet. And pretty. Meroko found herself tracing the girl's face with her finger, wondering how she grew her hair so long. It was even longer than Meroko's.

She flipped the glossy magazine back to the sex page and shifted it aside. The next magazine was the gossip rag that she'd so coverted.

Her anticipation – and her heart – plummeted. The smaller blurbs proclaimed one actress's pregnancy scare, an actor's mistress, and a man who'd tried to legally wed his dog in the state of California.

But it was the main feature that turned her stomach.

SUPERMODEL LOSES LOVER TO DISEASE – _fears that Takuto killed himself – his night on the town: allegations of drugs, drinks, and other women – his shocking disappearance_

Meroko's blood thudded through her. She tore through the magazine pages until she found another giant, mascara-stained picture of Hikari. She read it. It took a moment to process, so she read it again.

She finished. The article drained her of her immediate fear, but left her pale and hollow.

There was no mention of her – Meroko realized now that she was silly to think there would be- only shady hints that he'd been spotted barhopping; had even, drunkenly, told a group of fans to fuck off (Meroko was sure that one was made-up – Takuto had seemed perfectly civil and fairly sober to her). Some even said that he'd ended up at a strip club where "a sultry, busty brunette clad in next-to-nothing gave him lap dances and offered him her services. The two were spotted leaving within the hour." Someone claimed to have seen him somewhere in Asia (maybe that was true) smoking in an elite, super-luxurious opium den (Meroko hoped not).

In the end, Meroko told herself, it didn't _prove _anything. She forced herself to close the magazine, even though her hands were shaking a little bit and her morbid curiosity begged her to continue.

With heavy heart and heavy boots, Meroko punched her time card and went out to serve.

Walking home, Meroko had the strange sensation that her feet were lighter than air, and flat, too. It wasn't unusual – even after weeks of her work, she still hadn't grown accustomed to her heavy platform boots.

Meroko, out of some strange kind of paranoia, looked around her as she walked home. There were the usual catcalls and whistles. She'd learned not to flinch, because that made them get louder and closer. But there was, to her great relief, no Izumi behind her. He must have followed her, that night with Takuto. She doubted that he had done so for her benefit – rather, for his own. She made a sigh of disgust. Her breath manifested as white smoke. She pulled her jacket tighter, but the goosebumps didn't leave her.

She wished Izumi was there.

_No, _she told herself, _no. I don't. _

A shadow crept up next to her. She forced herself to wait ten seconds, then she looked. A young man. He laughed, and his tongue flashed at her. A piercing. Meroko surprised herself when she stopped walking. They were smack-dab under a street lamp. As if that were any help. _I have pepper spray, _she thought, and her fingers crept toward her purse.

The boy saw her fingering her purse, and mistook it for another sentiment. He laughed. "Don't worry, sweetie, I'm not after your money."

"She works at the strip club down the street. I recognize her hair." Another man crept into the light. He had a friend. Holding a bottle of something. Meroko suddenly felt unsure of herself. Very unsure. So unsure that she suddenly found herself wishing she was still in college, still on the path to being the perfect pediatrician-slash-wife that her parents had dreamed of. Oh, God. Her parents. Her life. Flashing before her eyes, which were apparently wide, because the first man, with the piercing, laughed and reached for her arm. She jerked away.

"We kind of want something else." He giggled, a giggle which got larger and sloppier. He was drunk. To her own surprise, it made Meroko more confident. She worked with drunk men every night, and if there was one thing she had learned, it was that alcohol made men stupid.

She gritted her teeth and braced herself for it. He leaned in again.

When he started to laugh, she socked him in the face.

And then she ran.

Her hair tangled. Her feet pounded the pavement, uncomfortable against the worn-down cushions of her second-hand tennis shoes. Her cheeks flushed. Her eyes teared up. She dared to look back. Neither of them followed her. She kept running.

She ran right up to her apartment, and then, on the stairs, she slowed, but she kept up a quick pace, even as her lungs spasmed for air. She didn't rest until she got to her apartment, until she locked the door safely behind her. Her hand trembled as she replaced the key in her purse. She remembered the dopey, unfocused look on his face, and the shock in his eyes after she punched, and the way his hands went to cover his nose (not like she could have done any damage – it was the shock of it, the shock that she, a little, pink-haired stripper freak, would ever, ever in a million years, think to sock him in the nose).

She grinned.

* * *

J-name (Jasna, right?) and Jessica looked up at her when she entered. Jessica waved and Jasna stared. Meroko basked in their attention.

"What happened to you?"

Meroko smiled. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"You just look…"

"Different!" Jessica finished. "Did you have sex this morning? You look totally happy. Like, in the afterglow."

Meroko smiled. The truth was that she'd taken a warm shower for the first time in a month, because she'd finally paid her bills. It had felt. So. Good.

Not just the shower, and the way she smelled so good after, all fragrant and warm. Not even how long she took, like it was the greatest luxury. She even managed to ignore the fact that a roach interrupted her halfway through – she'd screamed, but then squished it with a flip-flopped crunch. It was the fact that, as she took her shower, she knew she'd _bought _it. She knew she'd worked for it. Her job was starting to pay off, and she could finally buy all those things she needed. Not all the things she didn't need, anymore. She'd learned that shiny bright red kettles were no good without gas to heat the water in them.

At first, she thought that paying her utilities bills was a mistake. And then the hot water had come in.

(The money from Takuto lay under her mattress, waiting for a really rainy day. Or a flood, as it were. The decision not to use it had been an uncharacteristic one, even to Meroko herself. There was money, money enough for everything she wanted for the next month, and yet…)

She flipped her pink hair back, feeling for the first time (maybe in her life) like she was the one in charge. "No, better than that." She winked.

Jessica giggled as though she'd said something naughty.

"A warm shower."

Jessica gasped happily, and even Jasna managed a smile.

"I heard you were taking dancing lessons with Candy," Jasna said after a moment, her voice cautious, but not unkind.

"I am," she said, trying not to sound too proud. She was proud. She wanted Jasna to know how cool she was, but at the same time she realized it was a better idea not to alienate her. She was better than these other girls, better-liked by Candy, going somewhere. Jasna danced some, but only for the introduction, or in the wee hours when the visitors didn't expect much.

"She offered for me, too," Jasna said, "but I work during the day." Pause. "At a department store."

"I think she tries to help us out," Jessica said, chewing thoughtfully at her lip. "I told her, I'm going to college. She's never asked me if I needed help. She probably knows I'm busy. The whole sexy-waitress thing is just, like, a way to get some money."

Jasna snickered, lightly ribbing Jessica. "That's what all the strippers say."

Jessica giggled. Meroko found herself smiling, even as she felt a little deflated.

Meroko heard the click of heels. Soleil entered the room and set right to opening her locker and peeling off her coat and shoes. The girls quieted and looked over in her direction.

"Nasty weather today, huh?" Soleil said it without even looking over at them. All business, as usual.

"Absolutely," Jessica answered, "it won't snow. It just keeps sleeting. It gets all slushy, and, like, bleh."

Meroko thought again of her warm shower and smiled. Who cared how gray it was outside when she smelled so nice and felt so warm?

* * *

"You're tail's off-center."

"Really?" Jessica leaned back and tried to fix it. "Thanks." She paused, her gaze fixed somewhere across the room.

"What? What is it?"

Jessica nodded in the direction that she was looking, her eyebrows knitting together. Meroko looked in the direction, and found herself puzzled, as well.

"What are _they _doing here?"

The two girls were young, and alone. Possibly gay, Meorko thought, but something about them – they looked so out of place. Their clothes. They wore denim skirts and sequin tops. Like girls just out of high school. Not the strip-club type. And they were looking around them, all around, not at the stage. Awkwardly avoiding it. She watched as Jasna approached them, spoke with them for a minute. They looked nervous.

Moments later, she felt a nudge in her side.

"What is it?"

Jessica fixed her gaze on Jasna, just as eager for an answer.

"They're legal," Jasna said, shrugging. "They said they're here looking for Takuto Kira – you know, that one singer that's gone missing. His disappearance is about all that Entertainment Tonight's been covering for the last two weeks."

Meroko's head jerked to look at them again. "No way."

"Yeah, well, way. That's what they said. I think they're just serious, stalkerish fans. They must think we've got him locked up somewhere or something."

"Why would they think he's here?" Jessica asked, stunned.

"I don't know." Her mouth puckered. "All the rags say that he visited strip clubs in the city right before he disappeared, but I don't know why they'd come to Neon."

Meroko's stomach turned. Did someone know something? _How? _

Jessica suddenly seemed to remember herself. "Oops, I gotta go get these guys their drinks."

Jasna looked at Meroko. "Meroko?"

"Yeah?" _Ohgodohgodohgodsheknows._

"Do you remember that guy who came here a few weeks ago?"

She nearly fainted.

"Yes?"

"Don't you think he looked like he might've been Takuto Kira?"

"I-I don't see why Takuto Kira would be coming to Neon. He'd go somewhere trendier, right?"

"I know, but didn't it _look _like him?"

"I do remember he was good-looking."

"Is that _all _that you can remember?" Jasna looked incredulous. "I know you were pretty drunk, but come on, you went home with the guy-"

"I didn't," Meroko said quickly.

"All right, all right, don't get touchy, I'm not calling you a slut or anything."

"He didn't want to go with me," Meroko said, crossing her arms over her chest. She felt her nails dig into her upper arms.

"Okay, okay, I believe you!" She looked deflated. "I just thought, maybe. I mean, I've been looking at the guy's face on TV every night, thinking, 'he looks really familiar', and then it hits me – but I was wrong, I get it. I've always wanted to meet a celebrity. And I was probably a little drunk myself. Lived in the city for years, but still no luck." She smiled a little, a wary peace offering, and went on to serve some drinks.

Meroko returned that night, gave a glance to Izumi's door. The yellow note was gone. She wondered if Izumi was home – he must have been; it was early in the morning. He was probably sleeping.

She had a flash of remembrance: his white skin, his near yellow eyes.

She sighed and entered her house, squishing another roach as she went.

(She would only notice the note, slipped under her door, in the afternoon daylight.)


	11. savior

a/n: 6/14/10: I enjoyed writing this chapter, hence the lengthiness (yup, it's the longest chapter yet) and uber-quick update. Thanks for all the reviews! More are always appreciated. This is the first of the last five chapters - enjoy!

* * *

_you're not my savior_

_but I still don't go_

* * *

Meroko woke up to sunlight, just tinged with golden, streaming into her windows. A nice December morning. Meroko sat up. How many days again until Christmas? She counted them on her chilled, exposed toes.

If today was Wednesday...

Not long.

She felt a sinky feeling in her heart. All she could think of was no tree, no lights, no gingerbread, no expendable money...

All alone.

She stood up, sheets and blankets rustling around her as she slipped out of bed. She stood up for a long, lonely minute. This was the worst part. The long days. She had nowhere to be, nothing to do; perhaps her boredom was the greatest factor in her decision to meet Candy for intermittent dance lessons. She slept into the afternoon, often, and lounged around for the rest of the day. Occasionally, she went out window shopping or picked up a newspaper to look at the wanted ads. Even though she looked, Meroko knew that, between her lethargy and her laziness and her own apprehension, she wasn't likely to ever send in an application.

What would she write down, anyway? 'Sort-of sometime stripper'? Something in her sunk deeper at the thought. _It's true, _a part of her countered. She decided to go get herself some cereal. She hoped the milk wouldn't have nasty ice-milk chunks in it today. She hated that.

It was only during her second bowl of Cap'n Crunch (it was her lunch, now), while watching a rerun of Maury, that her eyes wandered to the curious envelope lying on the ground. Someone had shoved it under her door.

Meroko hoisted herself off her belly and off her mattress. She walked over to the envelope, noting that her house was auspiciously free of visible roaches - the new poison must have been working.

She turned the envelope over carefully, and over again, but there was nothing written on it, not even her name.

She opened it carefully and shook it out. All that fell out was a letter. Meroko examined it, then picked it up.

She recognized the handwriting. Takuto's. Her heart sped up. She skimmed the letter: words like PROBLEM and TABLOID and CALL ME at (number here).

She stood there, suddenly feeling both very light and heavy, eyes glued to the sticky mess of words in front of her.

_What _did he just say?

She read the letter.

She felt a little faint.

Nope, not just faint.

She was pretty sure she was on the verge of honest-to-God hyper-ventilating.

* * *

Meroko flung on her coat, right over her hole-y sweats, and she was out the door, fumbling with her key. She tried to concentrate. This wasn't so bad. Nope. She would survive. From what Takuto'd written, they didn't know anything. She was going to talk to him. It was going to be okay. He was going to fix this. She repeated it in her mind: _Takuto, Takuto. _It was like a mantra. Everything would be okay.

She tried to forget his brokenness, to focus on how brave and chivalrous and rich and powerful he was. He had contacted her about it. He cared about her. He wasn't going to let her go through this alone.

She heard the click of another door opening. She stilled. Correction: she froze.

There was quiet for a minute, like he expected her to say something. Then - flat, irate, tired, _finally _- he spoke.

"I heard your door slam."

She tacked on a kindly _What's wrong, Meroko? _out of habit. Old delusions: harder to kill than cockroaches. Although, she though, suddenly angry, a good poison could theoretically kill both.

"I... have to go somewhere."

"In the middle of the day? In such a hurry?" He took a few steps closer to her. She found the right key. Duh. It was the only one on the chain, besides the one for her locker at work.

"Look at me."

She looked up out of reflex. He was still in his work clothes, the proper tie and starched, tucked-in shirt. His eyes had dark circles under them.

Above all, he looked puzzled. About what? Her? She was upset. There was nothing puzzling about that; what was he looking for, trying to piece together?

"I was just going down," she said, her voice a little mroe regular, now. The sharp edges of her keys dug into her fist. "I was going to call somebody."

"_Who?_" he asked. It wasn't a sneer. It was incredulity; Meroko couldn't blame him. In fact, it was sort of pathetic, but she was glad he wasn't taking the oppurtunity to make a jab about her meeting a client for a nooner, or anything. It was an improvement, at least.

"None of your business."

He cracked the faintest of smirks. Only this time, it was almost a smile. His eyes told her that he was too tired to form a full smirk at the just then, too busy to sharpen his knives.

"I have a telephone. You can use it."

Her lips pursed with distaste, mostly at her own confusion. He was being _nice _to her, almost. But he was _Izumi. _

"You just want to listen to my conversation," she said, the notion suddenly dawning on her.

"And you would walk down twelve flights and pay money for a pay phone just to spite me?"

She nearly gnashed her teeth in frustration. It was true. Expect for the money part. She couldn't find any quarters in her desperate flight. She'd just planned to go... beg or something. Suddenly, she felt like a complete idiot. She hadn't thought about this at all.

"_Fine,_" she finally spat. "But you can't hang around in the room and listen to my conversation."

"It's my phone. I don't think you get to make conditions." He smile-smirked, and if it weren't for the so-obviously weary, smile part, she would have screamed at him. "And my apartment only has one room."

Nevertheless, she was surprised when he sat as far away as he could, looking over some paperwork, to show her how intently he was _not _listening to her conversation. It pissed her off a little. Was it a big show of his not-caring?

What was he doing home in the middle of the day?

His lips drew tight, although he didn't look up from his papers. She realized she'd said that last bit out loud.

"I would prefer-"

"Hello?" The phone had stopped ringing, and Meroko was offering a tentative greeting.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Izumi tense, just a litlte, and lean in toward his papers. She knew he was listening, whether he'd planned to or not. _You'renot getting any names out of me, _she thought smugly.

But her smugness paled in comparison to the wreck she was racing into, the gravity of her situation. For an added sting came the thought of all the names that Izumi would call her if he knew that Takuto (or, as he knew him, her one night stand) was on the other end of his phone line.

But it wasn't.

"May I help you?" A curious, distinctly not-Takuto voice.

"I - is- is this - did I call the right number?"

"What number are you trying to reach?"

Meroko glanced over at Izumi. She shifted to give him more of her back before unfolding the now-crumpled note in her palm.

"T-Takuto," she said, just his name, just like that, in a pathetic little whisper.

"Yeah. Where did you get this number?"

"From him."

"Really." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, _really,_" she said, voice still soft (mostly because of Izumi), but a little louder, more a hiss than a whisper.

"Meroko," she said, "Meroko Yui."

There was a long pause. Meroko bit at her lip. Something was wrong.

"Sorry," said the voice. It didn't sound terribly sorry. "It's been - well. This is Takuto Kira's cellular phone."

"So who are you?"

"His band manager's assistant. He - the band manager - told me to keep an eye on Takuto's phone in case anyone called." Almost as if on an afterthought, he added, "You're the first one."

"But - I - he told me to call him. I don't get it, is he still missing? Why do you have his cellular?" She didn't care if her voice was rising, if it was getting high and loud and desperate; she didn't care that Izumi had frozen, forgetting his paperwork completely, was staring at her with wide eyes. She didn't care if this _manger's assistant _thought she was batshit insnae. Her last life saver was gone when she needed it most, when it seemed like her life was on the verge of pulling some kind of Titanic.

She hated that movie. The pretty boy died.

She was about to cry.

There was a palpable hesitation on the other end of the line. "Mer - Miss Yui -" the mode of address sounded phony, even to her "-If you would.. meet us at St. Mary's?"

Her stomach twisted.

"The hospital?"

There was a muffled voice. A 'we'. "That's Mr. Oakenfeld." Not to her: "Sorry. Yeah?" Meroko waited. "Okay." To her, again: "I'll meet you in the lobby."

"Where is he?"

Pause. He lowered his voice. "Critical care unit. But don't come. It won't help anyone if they see you that close."

"Oh my Go-" but he'd already hung up. Meroko looked at Izumi's phone in her hand. She felt light. It all seemed so surreal. Slowly, she hung Izumi's phone back on its reciever.

"What happened?"

She turned around to really face him. His exhaustion allowed something that resembled concern to leak into his pale eyes; he leaned forward, toward her.

Meroko stared at him.

Of all people nearby when she realized her life was about to implode - of all the people in the world - it had to be him. Izumi. She could hardly stand the sight of him at that moment. She couldn't tell if he was prepared to comfort her or just hungry for her pain.

"I... I think I need to go to the hospital."

Izumi stared at her for a while. She stared back. Her arms felt limp at her sides, a rag doll's arms.

Izumi blinked, and then he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. It took her a moment to register that he'd walked up to her and was holding out a five-dollar bill, waiting for her to take it.

"For subway fare," he said, a bit dourly.

She glanced up at him, then down at the money again, then helpless back up at him.

He made a vague sound which could have been disgust or pity or even embarrassment, his eyes falling down, his hand reaching out to open her palm and deposit the money there. He closed her fist around it and abruptly let go. "There," he said, "go."

Meroko's arm fell limply to her side.

He grabbed her arm. Meroko would've cried out, but she was beyond even that. He dragged her out the door, down the stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"The hospital."

She gave him a dazed stare, even as he yanked her down the steps.

"Exactly _which _hopsital is something I'd appreciate you telling me."

"St. Mary's. Why are you doing this?"

His mouth formed that same pursed line that she'd seen so many times. He didn't even look at her, much less answer.

"You could walk a little faster, you know."

The numb of shock was leaving; the sturdy feeling in the pit of her stomach returned.

He was right.

"Thank you," she said.

* * *

They stopped outside the door of the hospital lobby. Meroko, looking through the panes of glass that made up the first floor's front, stared at the group that crowded the inside. Men, women, even a couple of mothers dragging children along. Lots of flashing lights and paparazzi.

They stood dumbly in the doorway, trying to figure out what was going on. Izumi figured it out first.

"Pull back your hair," he muttered. "And pull up your hood."

Meroko complied. On the subway, he'd asked her what this was all about. Too tired to answer, too defeated to fight, she only handed him the crumpled note from Takuto.

He'd read it, then handed it back to her.

"I see."

She almost felt that he'd said it without malice, but that couldn't be, not Izumi, not to her, not when it was clearly stated in the note that the tabloids had gotten wind of their one-night engagement.

Meroko caught her reflection in a pane of the glass. She didn't look like anything special without her long, pink hair. Just another girl, blurry in thin in the glass.

Izumi nodded toward the door, and they entered. Meroko clasped her hand around the edge of her hood, keeping it tightly in place.

"Excuse me! Yes. Would everyone who's heard that Takuto Kira is in the building please vacate it? This is a hospital, not the red carpet."

"Is he here, then?"

"Is he okay?"

"What happened to him?"

Meroko recognized the first voice, the commanding one. It was the guy she'd spoken to on the phone.

"Regardless of whether he is here or not, the staff needs you to vacate the hospital."

A chorus of disgruntled mumbling broke out. A couple of people shuffled out. Most remained.

"Or they will be escorted out by the police."

A couple of indignant cires, more mumbling, more shuffling. Meroko, before she knew what she was doing, found herself walking up to the assistant, clinging to his forearm.

"Please-"

"Miss," he said, obviously about to lash out, "I _am not_ kidding. Please leave."

"You asked me to come here."

He looked at her with a confused contempt but then, like a mist in sunlight, it cleared from his eyes, leaving recognition.

"You're...?"

"Meroko Yui," she whispered.

Izumi had caught up with her. He stood a few paces behind her, looking around at the lobby as though bored. She wondered if he actually was.

"I assumed you would come alone."

"Sorry."

"What is he, your...?"

"I'm not her pimp, if you're asking." His voice was flat. She couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "She's a stripper, not a prostitute."

_Gee, _she thought, _he sure is sweet. _Any homicidal urges were mellowed by the fact that he was there, and, for the most part, it seemed like he was actually trying to help.

"I was going to say boyfriend."

"By the way you look at her, I couldn't tell. My apologies."

The assistant's face flushed and now he looked embarrassed instead of pissed. Meroko realized that he _had _been looking at her contemptuously. For one reason or another, it didn't surprise her a lot.

Meroko shook her head.

"I'm sorry," he said, "Listen, Hikari's coming to visit in half an hour and, anyway, my boss said it was bad news to have you here, what with all the people around." He pointed at something behind them. Meroko glanced back to see a paparazzi that was edging in on them, trying to get some grasp on their conversation. Meroko was grateful that her hood was up and her back was turned. "_I said get out!" _he snapped. "Anyway. Wouldn't be wise to have you connected. What do you say I take you - two - to the cafe down the street? Treat you to coffee? Tell you... what's going on?"

"Fine," Meroko said, worn through with worry, "Yeah, that sounds. Fine."

At that moment, there was a considerable amount of gasping and squealing, some excited screaming that Meroko could hear even from the inside of the hospital.

Hikari slipped out of her limo. First her high, black heels, then her tight jeans that made her legs look miles long, then a chic, black trench nipped around her tiny waist. Even with the huge pair of dark sunglasses obscuring her face, it was easy to tell who she was, and easier still to see how much more beautiful she was in real life, next to all the ugly, normal people. Beautiful girls like that didn't appear every day. A blinding array of camera flashes followed her, like flashes of light after an angel's entrance. Meroko prayed that Hikari wouldn't recognize her.

If she'd stopped and screamed at her, called her a shameless slut in front of the whole building, Meroko would have known that she deserved it.

When she strode past Meroko without looking, Meroko knew she deserved Hikari's indifference even more. Hikari was... Hikari, the woman followed by flashes of light and loss of breath. Meroko was just Meroko, greasy-haired with a pimple near her hairline, currently in ratty clothes.

Izumi was tugging on her coat sleeve. "Are you listening? We need to get out of here. He'll meet us in ten minutes."

* * *

The cofee shop was small and discreet. Meroko could tell by the clientele - an old man alone with his paper, two gossiping, middle-aged women - that it was far from 'hip', far from any place the photographers and fans would want to follow or where she would be openly recognized. Meroko kept her hood on nevertheless.

While Mark - the assistant - went on about what a disaster this was (she _knew_), Meroko filled her coffee cup with packet after packet of sugar and powdered creamer.

"It's bitter," Izumi interrupted.

"What?"

"The coffee."

Mark stared at Izumi as though he very much wanted to kill him at that moment. Meroko actually nearly laughed (was she going insane?), maybe she actually would have, if she wasn't so upset. Izumi pushed his cofee away and crossed his arms.

Silence.

Meroko took a sip of her coffee. It was disgustingly sweet. She wasn't one for coffee, anyway.

"Please," she said, "Can you tell me what's going on?"

Mark dug through his messenger bag and pulled out a tabloid, slapping it onto the table.

Meroko leaned forward. Takuto's face, as in last week's, took up most of the page.

"That's ridiculous," Izumi scoffed, reading the caption. "She's a waitress at a burlesque club, not a stripper. Who's fact-checking this?"

Meroko glanced at Izumi. As usual, she couldn't tell whether he was making fun of her or not.

HIKARI'S DESPERATE SEARCH - THE STRIPPER TAKUTO SLEPT WITH!

"See?" It was Mark, almost quiet.

She felt something in her throat, something heavy that threatened to choke her.

Tentatively, she thumbed through the pages. There was a picture of her, in her work clothes. She'd never realized how silly her costume really looked.

They didn't even blur out her face.

Wrenching her eyes from the photo of herself, Meroko skimmed the article. Two words stuck out at her: MEROKO YUI.

"It's your stage name, isn't it? At least that allows you some degree of anonymity."

Meroko couldn't find the words to explain to him that Meroko Yui was more than just a 'stage name', that Meroko Yui was who she was. Moe Rikyu was gone, dead. Killed after the first suicide attempt. She _was_ Meroko. She was the girl in the picture. It wasn't as if the girl in the picture was someone she turned off and on - Moe Rikyu was, in Meroko's mind, a completely seperate person. Moe Rikyu was the good girl, who listened to her parents and did ballet and dated a biology major. After she died, Meroko Yui took up her body. Meroko Yui ran away from home, danced on a pole, and apparently slept with anything that fell into her lap.

Mechanically, she took another ship of her over-sweet coffee. It made her stomach clench.

"My mother reads this," she said, dazed.

"You told me that Takuto gave you his number?"

She handed Mark the note. He read it quickly, then leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

"Look, this is gonna be a PR nightmare-"

"What about me?"

He opened his eyes to look at her, really look hard. Without the shock of pink hair, with the hood up, all he saw was a nervous, delicate, childlike face, with wide, almond eyes and quivering lips. She looked young. She looked freaked out. There was nothing he could do for her.

"Look," he said again, "If Takuto hadn't pulled the - the stunt he's just pulled -" his voice broke a little, but he plodded on with casualness "-you probably would have been hounded for a couple months and faded into obscurity. Not fun, but not the end of the world." He didn't know how to say the next part.

"What... stunt?"

"I was getting to that. He had a motorcycle accident."

Meroko sucked in a breath. There was something attentive even in Izumi's usual silence.

"But you said..."

"We think it was suicide."

Meroko looked down at the note.

"I know he was suicidal," she said slowly, "but he sent me this note. He planned to talk to me. Today. Suicidal people don't... don't make plans..." She faltered.

Mark closed his eyes again. "How do I know what suicidal people do or don't do? Maybe it was spur-of-the-moment, or maybe Takuto really did just have an accident. I doubt it. They didn't find any alcohol in his system, and he crashed into a wall on the highway. In the middle of the night. That doesn't sound accidental to me."

There was another long silence.

"Suicidal people make plans," Izumi put in matter-of-factly, but no one really heard what he said, not even Izumi himself.

"You get it. You're the last person to have spoken with him. Hell, you slept with him. Every reporter in America is going to try and talk to you. You're going to get hounded. And not in a good way."

"I didn't sleep with him." Then: "Is he - is he really that - bad?" _You're talking about him like he's dead. _

Mark nodded. "Coma. He's got some serious scraping and some broken stuff, but he got lucky. They can fix that. It's the coma that's dangerous. If he wakes up in the next couple of days, great. If not..."

Meroko realized that Mark had known Takuto, that he must be torn up, too. She stared down at her coffee, trying and failing to find anything more to say.

"How can she keep them away?" It was Izumi. She hated that he was speaking for her as if he were her father. Even then, he sounded indifferent. Did he have any feelings at all?

Mark considered. "You should quit your job at - where was it?" He glanced down at the article. "Neon. They're going to flood in looking for you."

Meroko hadn't thought it possible that the pit of her stomach could sink any lower, but it did. It took someone telling her to quit her job at Neon for her to realize how much she _liked _her job at Neon - or, at least needed it. It paid well.

She buried her head in her arms. Her hood obscured her completely. Good. Let it. She wanted a hole to form in the ground and swallow her up.

She faintly heard Mark say something about calling if she had any problems (but how it would be better if she didn't) before she heard his chair creak as he rose to leave.

She felt a tug on her coat. 'Get up. You can take your coffee, if you actually want it."

Meroko looked up at him, bleary-eyed.

"Why are you doing this?"

He stared at her for a moment, without malice, without anything.

"Are you bringing your coffee or not?"

She took it, even though it was getting cold and still tasted disgusting.

* * *

She sipped it on the subway and played with the lid between sips, popping it off and on and off again. Each sip tasted like saccharine, liquid cardboard. She kept her hood up. She didn't look around.

"What time is it?"

She heard him moving to check his watch.

"Nearly five."

"I'm not sure if I want to go to work tonight."

"You shouldn't."

"Like I'm going to do what _you _tell me," she said, but it was a weak resistance, at best.

Meroko was getting warm. It was all the thoughts, crowding around in her head, twitching and racing. After what felt like hours of endurance, she took off her coat.

"What are you doing?"

"I feel sick."

He didn't say anything else. She wondered if his mouth was making that line again. She didn't have enough energy in her neck to turn it and check.

As they were getting off the train, Meroko tripped - she thought someone had tripped her, but no, she was just imagining thing; she was just clumsy. As she stumbled, she felt her cofee cup fly out of her hand, the cardboard coffee and the Cap'n Crunch coming up her throat. She clenched her teeth and swallowed. Her mouth burned.

"_Eugh._"

She turned to see Izumi covered in something brown and wet. For a mortifying split-second, she was terrified that she had puked on him.

"You spilled coffee on me." He didn't sound particularly angry, or even (more typical of Izumi) irritated. Just tired. Meroko, despite her numbness, found herself going completely red.

"Sorry," she mumbled, looking down at his shoes (she vividly remembered pushing on those). She tried to pat at the stain with her coat sleeve.

"Leave it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Their hike up the twelve flights of stairs was considerably slower than their rush down them.

Izumi looked tired. Even just his back, which she was currently staring at with unblinking eyes, looked tired, with his shoulders hunched in, his neck bent down.

"Do you want something to drink?" When he didn't answer right away, she added, "I have Coke."

"And it's the least you can do for me after what you've put me through today, right?"

She bit her lip. She couldn't tell if he was seriously blaming her or mocking her... or, whatever.

"Look, I'm just trying to be nice to you. If you've thought even _once _that I'm still interested you after last week - forget it." She realized as she said it that it was a lie, but she felt like it came out how she wanted it to: exasperated, generally nonchalant, just a tad annoyed. Most of all, reasonable.

"I haven't," he said.

"Do you want a Coke?"

"Yes."

She let him in. It was weird, trying to be friendly to him. The past few hours had been insane. She still didn't trust him. She still hated him; still couldn't deny that she wanted, on some sick level, for him to touch her, kiss her, bite her. But after today, she really couldn't see herself just... _ignoring _him, like she'd been trying to before.

Maybe a casual friendship would be okay.

* * *

She felt a little better sipping her Coke. It was way too sugary, after the coffee, but the bubbles helped. And the bracing, fresh air from the window helped, too. She felt cold, but crisper, less melty than on the subway.

Her eyes fell on the coffee stain splashed on the white of his dress shirt. It was starting to get stiff and crinkly. Consdiering that she'd spilled coffee down his entire front, it looked uncomfortable. He looked cold.

"You can shut the window, if you want."

"I'm fine."

She shut it for him. "I'm feeling a little better." She wasn't sure whether he cared or not; suddenly, she felt awkward. "Not, um. Sick anymore. Still freaked, but not sick." She aimed a tiny smile at him. He smiled back, but his eyes, fixed on his Coke, remained blank.

Either she was imagining things or it was already starting to get warmer.

"I should go," he said, standing. He started fiddling with the buttons at the top of his shirt. It was the first time she could remember seeing him fidget. It fascinated her.

"Okay." She wondered what went wrong. Wasn't she being friendly, casual, offering him a Coke?

She stood, too.

"I, um. Guess I'll let you out."

"The door's right there," he said. He'd absently undone a couple of buttons. The effect - along with his un-tucked shirt, wrinkled coat, unruly hair, and undone tie - was a state of utter undress. He didn't sound so sharp for once. Almost soft.

"Meroko-"

"You'd better go," Meroko said. She was doubting herself, scared at how this - like everything else - was spiraling completely out of her control. Shit. Shit. _Shit. _

His mouth had opened - he was about to say something - when there was a knock on the door. Simultaneously, they flinched and craned their necks toward the door.

They looked at each other.

"If you don't know who it is, don't open it."

Meroko looked out the peephole.

She blinked, then backed slowly away from the door, staggering a step.

"What? Is it someone you know?"

Meroko closed her eyes. This was all a dream. Like, a nightmare. She'd dozed off while watching Maury; Takuto, the hospital, Izumi, Izumi looking like he might be looking at her like he wanted to kiss her - all one big, damned nightmare.

"Yes," she managed.

Izumi strode over and opened the door.

"Hello?" he said, with that polite rudeness with which he was so gifted. Meroko squeezed her eyes shut. "Who is this?"

"My ex-boyfriend," Meroko mumbled. "Kimiharu."

She kept her eyes closed, even though when she did, she felt, faintly, his sweaty palms on her arms, the pressure of his calves over hers. The strange, sick sensation of thought evaporating into mist.

_Shit. _

This really was a nightmare.


	12. consumptive ballerinas

a/n: 6/21/10: My Kimiharu is different from canon Kimiharu, mostly in level of obnoxiousness and in appearance. But the story's about the same. Hopefully the pieces are coming together. :) As usual, please review if you enjoy the chapter. And _woah. _Why am I updating so fast?

* * *

_she came on like a light_

_and so softly she spoke_

_"You don't know, _

_you don't know about my dark life"_

* * *

"Do you need to sit down?"

It was Izumi.

"Yeah," she muttered, dizzily making her way to the cushions she'd strewn around her coffee table. She sat down.

She looked up. Kimiharu had taken a tentative couple of steps into her apartment and was looking at her worriedly. She noticed that he held a cardboard box in his arms. A cardboard box of... she squinted.

"Is that...?"

"They're your things," he said, hastily, putting them down on her coffee table. It took him a minute to find a space that wasn't littered with old instant ramen wrappers or clothes. _Awkward. _It embarassed her, that he was seeing all of her mess. She knew he was judging her for being dirty.

"Why do you have my stuff?"

Without the box to hold on to, he nervously clasped his hands behind his back. "Your mother told me I should go through your room and bring them to you." His eyes flicked doubtfully to the door, then he knelt before her and pulled a stuffed animal off the top, handed it to her. When she didn't reach for it, he set it in her lap. Tenderly, almost. "You forgot your stuffed cat. Don't you regret that? I know you loved this thing."

She turned away, uncomfortable, and brought her legs up onto the couch. The bell around the cat's neck jingled as she shifted psoitions. She wondered what is was like for him, going into her room, finding all of the things he thought she prized above all. How he must've thought, with each trifle that he put in the box, how considerate he was being, how much Moe would like this. She could imagine her mother in the doorway, anxiously advising him on what best to bring her. How best to reel her back, like a fish on a hook, attracted by measley bait. Something in her broke, and something burned. It was manipulative. It also made her sad.

"My mother...?"

There was a long pause. Then, as though regretful:

"She read that article in that trashy magazine. Moe-" here he reached out to envelope her hand in his. Hers went limp. He didn't pay it any mind. "Moe, we're all so worried about you. Fuzuki's been doing everything she can to track you down. She and Seijuro have been playing detective. _I'm _worried about you. You dropped out of college to come... _here, _of all places. Your mom and dad and your whole family are worried. I know my mom's been feeling the same. You would think her own child went missing." He gave a hollow laugh, eyes scanning the room. Resting on her messy bed, the tacky walls, the mess; _her, _with her pink hair and dirty clothes. On Izumi.

"Maybe we could have a little privacy?"

Meroko choked on her response. It came out as a gasp of protest. She was in no fit state to be talking. _Her mother knew. _And her father. And, of course, they had to explain their daughter's absence. So Kimiharu's parents knew, as well.

She could imagine their condolences when they learned that she'd run away: _You raised her right, don't worry, it's not your fault. She was never much good at anything, was she? Not even Kimiharu could keep her in line. Oh, no, don't worry Michiko, it wasn't your fault..._

"Don't mind me," Izumi said.

"How did you know I was here?" Meroko finally managed.

In preparation of a longer talk, he undid himself from his kneeling position and gingerly seated himself next to her. She realized he was checking for filth. Or bugs. Or something.

"Moe," he said, "This may be hard for you to understand, but your mother knew where you were. She knew all along." His hand reached out to cup the side of her face. Gentle. "After your stunt a few weeks ago, there was no way she was going to let you go without knowing where you lived, at least."

_Stunt. _The same wording Mark had used to talk about Takuto's motorcycle accident, only Kimiharu was talking about her aspirin overdose. Suddenly hyper-concious in the silence, she heard Izumi shifting against the wall.

She didn't bother to brush his hand away, even though it was lingering too long and too stiff, like a statue's. She stared down at the stuffed animal in her lap. Threadbare, well-beloved, Mr. Moo. When he let his arm fall, she brought Mr. Moo to her face, let him absorb all her tears. He smelled like soap and her old room. He made her want to cry even more, but the last thing she wanted was to turn to a pile of mush in front of Kimiharu.

The fact that he had brought her this - this little-girl relic - was a slap in the face.

The memory hit her like one:

_Her room, darker than a nightmare. _

_His breath, tinged with hard liquor; another party he didn't bring her to._

_Her squeaky protests, too quiet for drunk ears. Her thin arms and legs, too weak even against a loose, drunk body. _

_His slurred mumbles of love for her, something about fucking someone. Seijuro Koga. _

_In the faint light of her imagination, the glass eyes of her stuffed animals shine back at her, in shock and somber judgment. She can't look at them. So she stares at the spot on the wall where a picture used to be, where the sunlight has faded the rose-patterned wallpaper around it. It looks so empty. _

Maybe he just didn't remember.

"I'm fine here," she said, less-than-convincingly, "Don't you see how fine I am? I have a - a c-cofee table, and... a television. And a table. And a bed. I'm fine."

_I'm fine, I'm fine. _

"Moe, you left college to become a stripper. You live in a dump. You're suicidal. You're sleeping around. You're not fine."

"I think you should go now," Izumi said curtly.

"You can't tell him what to do." Her voice was bland. Secretly, she wished he would.

"Is he your boyfriend?" Kimiharu, now, a bit wary.

"No. She's just, well, what did you say? Sleeping around."

The challenge in the comment - no matter how deadpan - made her dizzy. What was he doing?

_He's the reason you quit violin, she teases._

_No, he says, face stony, No he's not. _

_Yes, he is, she giggles. The thought of Seijuro makes her giggle. He's beautiful. Golden smiles, pretty face, polite, sincere words. Violin that moves her to tears. Even the thought of his victory over Kimiharu - the fact that he posseses true genius where Kimiharu only posseses talent - fills her with a sick, taboo kind of glee. _

_You think you have a chance with him, he says, cruelly, as though the pitiful thought has only just dawned on him._

_She stares at her shoes. Her hand is still in his. Suddenly, it feels even worse than before._

_But you can't, he continues. You've seen him with Fuzuki, haven't you?_

_So? _

_It can't be true, she thinks, Fuzuki's been her best friend since they were five; sure, they've grown apart since high school, but she's not interested in Seijuro. Not in the least bit. It's not her fault she's so smart and beautiful. She's just being nice to him, laughing at his jokes, being friendly and kind, like she always is..._

_So who would chose you over Fuzuki? _

He shouldn't have said that to Kimiharu.

Kimiharu's face strained to ignore the comment as he turned back to Meroko.

"Moe," Kimiharu said, taking her hand again, "I love you. Your mother loves you. Your father loves you-"

Meroko laughed. He grasped her hand tighter, with both of his, trying very hard to hold onto something.

"I'm not kidding, Moe. We love you, and we don't like seeing you like this."

"You love Moe," she said, as though stating the obvious.

"Yes," he said, whole-heartedly.

She closed her eyes. _Breathe in, breathe out_.

"I'll get you a Coke," she said. "Give me a minute."

All she wanted was for him to go. Or even better, to never have come. She felt like all her limbs were in the wrong places. She felt like she had on the night they'd had sex. Light and hollow, like a dead bird. Ready to float away into nothing.

Just as she was about to turn around, frigid Coke in hand, she felt the lightest touch on her arm.

"Tell him to go."

He spoke very softly. She tried to match it, primly, although she knew she had no chance.

"You're not in charge of me."

"I'm just telling you what you should already know. What _I _can tell just by looking at you. Tell him to go."

He was right; she _did _know already. She was looking past him, at Kimiharu, who stared intently in return. Not at her – at Izumi. Trying to see how tall he was, trying to figure out if he dyed his hair, taking a blow in his good looks and a delight in his slovenliness. Unease in the untucked, unbuttond shirt.

"What's your name?" he asked, with a casual tone that was anything _but _casual. Meroko reluctantly took the can to Kimiharu and seated herself farther away from him.

Izumi leaned calmly back against the wall. He made Kimiharu wait. Meroko took petty enjoyment in it. "Izumi Rio," he said. "And you are?"

"Kimiharu Watase. What do you do for a living?"

"Office work."

"So you have a college degree." He sounded surprised, somehow, and disdainful.

"Bachelor's in business." He paused. "I'm going for my MBA."

Kimiharu shrugged. He looked at Meroko for a moment. "He's older than you," he commented.

"I didn't say I was sleeping with him," she gnashed out.

"Aren't you?"

She let the question fall.

Izumi picked it up. "Oh, that?" he said, as though he'd forgotten, but, no matter. "I was only kidding. You can tell when someone's joking, can't you?"

She stared at him.

"I am," she said. _Well, maybe not in the present tense, but. _She looked over at Izumi. His eyes were wider than usual. She glanced away quickly.

Kimiharu looked at her uncomprehendingly.

"You need to come home," he said emphatically.

"I am," she replied.

It took him a moment more to understand.

"You aren't – living with him, are you?"

"Yes," she said, this time just to piss him off, "And we had sex right there. Where you're sitting. Go on, stand up, I don't care." Her cheeks felt like they were on fire, but she couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or anger.

"It was good sex," Izumi said, his voice nearly a whisper, his voice almost a smile.

Meroko felt like a crazy woman, drunk on her power. She smiled, too.

"Moe," he said, his voice low, "can I talk to you alone for a minute?"

Meroko glanced at Izumi. His eyes narrowed.

"If you want to," she said, trying not to sound scared.

"And I will be right outside this door," Izumi said cheerfully. Kimiharu looked at Izumi as though Izumi were something on the bottom of his shoe. Izumi smiled and exited.

"Moe, you have to-"

"You don't tell me what I have to do or not do," she said, "if you want to talk, we can talk about other things."

There was a pregnant silence.

"The weather was relatively nice today," he said, stiffly, "for December."

Another long silence.

"You should come home."

"No."

"You're only here because you think you love him. Is he the reason you ran away?"

"_No," _she said, emphatically. "You- you think I ran away for a boy? I didn't even know him three weeks ago." Well, _that _came out wrong. But she didn't care anymore. The insult was too great to ignore. Maybe because she had run away _from _a lot of things, and even then, a boy was only one of them.

Kimiharu's lips curled. "He looks like Seijuro," he said.

"No, he doesn't look _anything like _Seijuro."

"He does. Seijuro, but with blonde hair and weird eyes and a sharper face. Let me tell you: he's nothing like Seijuro, Moe. Seijuro is a good guy, all things considered. This man is..." he glanced at the door. "Like an inverse. Perverse."

"Maybe I like that," she replied flippantly. She'd definitely thought of Izumi in those terms before, but from what he'd shared with Kimiharu she had no idea how _Kimiharu _could come to that conclusion. It came to her, what she had known all along: Kimiharu was just jealous.

"Moe," he said, getting irritated, "You can't stay here. If I can't bring you home, Fuzuki or your mother or even your father is going to come and _make _you."

"No one can make me do anything," she said, and, for the first time, it felt true. "I'm over eighteen. If I want to stay here and never go to college, that's my choice."

He stared at her with blatant disgust. "That would be a terrible choice."

"But it's mine," she said, with a freakish sense of wonder.

He shook his head. "I'll tell your mother you're doing all right. It'll be a lie, but at least she'll not worry so much. She'll want to come see you anyway." His lip curled even more dramatically. "You may not want him around when she comes. She'd have a hemmorage."

Meroko stared at the faux-wood of her coffe table as he exited. She could feel him pausing at the door, could feel him giving her one last tender, pleading look. But she didn't care. _Let him leave. _

_"_You know what you did," she said softy.

She looked up, and when she saw his face, she knew that he knew.

He left without apologizing.

* * *

Seconds later, Izumi re-entered her apartment to stare at her.

She laughed brokenly, unsure of what to say. "Well," she said, "that went well."

He sat down across from her. They remained like that for twenty minutes, in silence, her staring at the wood, wondering what she'd just done.

Finally, she asked him if she could borrow his phone to call work.

He nodded.

She asked, again, "Why are you being so nice to me?"

She didn't really expect an answer. He hadn't given her one the last two times she'd asked, and she was surprised when he answered.

"I guess we've both had bad days."

It was more of an answer than he had given her all day - hell, for the entire time she'd known him - but it was still more oblique than the sky outside, which had already gone dark with the early December night, smoggy with city light pollution. Meroko knew better than to ask more. To dig any deeper would be to create a wound. But something in the moment - in the entire day - made them intimate, made her reckless, gave her courage. She was not scared of death. She was not scared of Kimiharu. She sure as hell wasn't scared of Izumi any more.

"What was bad about your day?"

He looked at her with a bemused sort of surprise.

"Aside from the mess that I went through with you?"

"Yes. You meant something before that, didn't you?"

He looked down at the wood, too. "I went to the hospital."

"You went to the hospital with me."

"Before that."

For a moment, she felt like her stomach was flipping again. "You're sick? With what? Are you going to be okay?"

He laughed.

Awkward pause.

"You're not sick?"

"No," he said, "but my mother is."

Something in his tone told her that she need not offer her condolences. He stood up, a sign to her that the matter had reached the full extent of discussion. For a second, she was afraid he was going to storm out, without another word to her.

"Do you still need to borrow my phone, Me-chan?"


	13. don't fight it

9/2/10: This story needs so many minor detail changes (like the screwed up timeline), so take this fic's quality with a grain of salt in the mean time. If things are weird and uncertain, just let them be. I apologize for what are likely to be more factual inaccuracies this chapter, as well as (as always) the long wait. I plan to finish this by Christmas, partially because that's when this fic is set. Two chapters to go!

* * *

_I'm drifting in deep waters_

_alone with my self-doubting again_

_try not to struggle this time_

_for I will weather the storm_

Meroko made her call quickly. Yes, she knew her job was on the line. Yes, she understood that she was only getting a pass because she sounded like her entire family had just died.

_No, _she was tempted to say, _but I just confronted my ex-boyfriend who'd forced me into sex. _

When she hung up the phone with a soft click, she found herself alone again with Izumi, who was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring out his window. She stared too, for a minute, blank-eyed and exhausted.

"I'm tired."

HIs gaze broke from the window, shifted to her. "You should go home," he said sensibly, "get some sleep. You'll feel better." He rose. She yawned, too tired to cover it.

He put one hand lightly on her shoulder, in what was supposed to be a friendly, supportive gesture. It felt too light, too tentative. She looked up at him.

"I..."

He withdrew his hand, but not too quickly, because he couldn't have her thinking he was doing anything less than friendly. He headed to the kitchen, giving her his back.

"I promise you. You'll feel better."

"Are you going to sleep? I mean, what about your..." She realized too late that she'd brought it up again.

He only stared at her.

"Okay. I'm going to bed."

"Goodnight." He smiled at her. Her heart sang. She scolded it for being stupid.

"Yeah. Goodnight."

It wasn't all that good, but she felt like it had ended better than she'd expected.

* * *

Meroko shut the door and took two steps into the small office. She took two steps in. She didn't dare venture farther.

"Miss Yui."

"Yeah," Meroko said, her spine chilling. Just a little. Candy had never 'Miss Yui-d' her, not even during her job interview.

With a thrust of her cigarette, Candy pointed to the din outside of the doors. "Do you know why we have so many visitors tonight?"

Meroko grimaced, much to her own chagrin. "No," she lied. In response, Candy merely raised two heavily plucked eyebrows.

"_Yes," _she amended.

"And?"

She broke.

"I'm sorry! I'm really sorry! I shouldn't have slept with him! Actually, I didn't sleep with him – I don't want you to think I'm a slut – I mean, I can be as slutty as you want me to be, I know, that's part of my job, I'm just saying – I wasn't – acting unprofessionally, or anything! I didn't talk to anyone from any of the tabloids or anything, they found out on their own! I'm really, really sorry. Please don't fire me!"

She didn't realize her eyes were squeezed shut until she heard chuckling and cracked them open to look.

"Fire you? Honey, believe me, this is trouble, but it's the good kind. Neon could always use business. I just want to know what this is about." She sounded overwhelmed. Meroko noticed her absently stub out the cigarette she'd lit only seconds ago.

"I thought it was a classy establishment," she said, vaguely remembering what Candy had told her at her job interview.

"That's just what we tell ourselves. Does it really matter, in the end?"

Meroko was suddenly put out. She wasn't even working for a classy burlesque club? Just a _normal _one?

There was a knock on the door. Candy brought a new, unlit cigarette to her mouth and nodded at Meroko. It took Meroko a moment to register that Candy wanted her to open it. Swallowing her reservations, she turned to do so. As she did, she heard the faint click of a lighter in the room behind her.

The reporter behind the door couldn't believe his good luck. He raised his camera to his face and snapped twice in rapid succession. Meroko was tempted to shut the door in his face, but she was far too stunned from the flash to do _anything_.

"Is there something you want?" Candy asked, with a hint of acid.

"Oh, yeah. You the boss around here?"

Candy took a drag of her cigarette, perhaps as much to gather her wits as to keep him waiting. "I am."

"How do you feel about your club harboring the biggest home-wrecker of the decade?"

Meroko had seen the news on TV last night: Hikari had just told the world about hers and Takuto's secret engagement. Her ring was a diamond the size of Texas.

Somehow, instead of jealousy, Meroko only felt numbness.

"Ask her how _she _feels," Candy said, shrugging and motioning toward Meroko.

"Hey. Meroko Yui? How do you feel about sabotaging Hikari and Takuto?"

She didn't answer. He thrust the voice recorder toward her.

"Well, you must've felt bad, right? Taking off for a couple nights like you did? We were waiting for you. Were you sleeping with someone else?"

Meroko didn't say anything. She waited for Candy to say something. Candy didn't say anything, either.

"I-"

"She'll be dancing later tonight," Candy interjected. "Now, get out of my office."

The man didn't move. Three others like him had appeared behind him, one with a camera. Flashes filled the room. Mention of Hikari had brought Meroko back to thoughts of the supermodel, and the way flashes followed her wherever she went. These flashes were more like spotlights on her humiliation.

Then what Candy had said registered. She looked frantically behind her. Candy was standing, now, but she still looked like she had her emotions under control. She wasn't off the deep end, or, at least, she didn't look like it. But letting Meroko dance in a club that was actually known for its _dancers _was insane.

Meroko couldn't.

"Go," Candy snapped. "You're not getting anything else out of me, or her. You can see her later tonight."

When they left (reluctantly), Meroko looked at Candy with big, pleading eyes.

"I can't dance," she said.

"You can and you will." Her voice was hard, and Meroko thought, for a moment, that despite all she said, Candy may have been punishing Meroko for the trouble she'd caused. "Yeah, you're not as good as the other girls. But you're not half bad. And you're what they want to see tonight."

"I only know the one dance we practiced," Meorko said, pleading even stronger, so strong as to be repugnant.

"Stop being such a baby."

"I can't do it."

"New flash: you can."

And with that, Meroko knew, though it went unsaid, that she was dismissed.

For her trouble and bravery, Meroko was rewarded with more knife-stares and pity-glances on the way to the locker room.

Soleil murmured a 'good luck', and Jessica clutched both of Meroko's hands and told her how she was sososo brave for going through this, and she wanted to be a dancer, but she couldn't imagine how it must feel to just go out there and _do it. _

When Jessica dashed off to do something else, Meroko found herself alone with Soleil. Out of the corner of her eye, she stole a look at the other girl.

Soleil smiled at her, her small kind of smile.

"I know you have a kid," Meroko blurted out. She wanted to clamp her hands over her mouth the second after it came out.

Soleil looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh," she said, finally, her face smoothing. "You were behind me at the grocery store that other day, right?"

Meroko's mouth opened, but no words came out: it just hung there stupidly.

"I didn't talk to you because you looked busy," Soleil said. "You were... you were stuffying your hair in your hat." She looked like she was about to laugh. Meroko felt herself blushing, almost as suddenly as she felt relief flooding through her.

"Yeah."

"His name's Damon."

"That's a... a nice name." Meroko was indifferent to the name, but she felt like she had to say something. Just to be nice.

"You might want to watch out for Jasna. She's pissed you lied to her about sleeping with a celebrity."

"I didn't..." Meroko decided it was useless. "Thank you," she said, meaning it.

April came in and announced, in her bored, dancer-voice, that Candy had just talked to her and told her that Meroko Yui needed to change and come to the stage in ten minutes. Soleil took this oppurtunity to slip out into the main room. "We're doing backup," she said flatly. Meroko got the idea that April didn't like being displaced as the lead dancer.

She squeaked out a noise of recognition. April pointed out the costume - a brand-new one stashed away by Candy, who would probably expect repayment - and explained that a little stripping was necessary, but she'd be left clothed by the end of the set.

"Relax," she said, a little derisively, when she saw Meroko's face. She seemed resentful of Meroko's horror, but at the same pitying – and, then, resentful of her own pity. "It's just like a swimsuit. No biggie."

"Easy for you to say," Meroko replied, a bit faint.

April's black-rimmed eyes examined Meroko. Hard. "Sit," she said.

Meroko obeyed.

"First of all, I have no idea why you got into the business. You don't look like you have a single performing bone in your body."

Meroko nodded, almost vigorously. Maybe April would help her escape.

"You agree. Good. Okay, second, if you know that, all you have to do is forget them. If Candy's right and you're actually okay at this, all you have do is pick a blurry face and wink at it every once in a while and you shouldn't be _too _bad. I mean, dancing is like making love to your audience, but if you can't do that, the least you can do is flirt with it. Understand?"

Meroko was still kind of put-off by April's pretentious opinions about Real Dancers – _making love to your audience, _her ass – but it was sound enough advice. She'd heard somewhere that April _had _been a Real Dancer. She'd heard that she used to be a real ballerina, but, like many at the club, was purportedly dancing to pay for school. Meroko wouldn't really know if this was actually true or not. She didn't really ask the other girls about their lives very much.

"There's someone who wants to see you," April added, in such a flat tone that Meroko almost missed it.

"What?"

"He didn't have any cameras or recorders or anything, so I figured he was honest when he said he wasn't a pap. Soleil said she'd seen him before."

Meroko really had no idea who it could have been, until she went out to meet him. She could've smacked herself at her own stupidity. April left, and Meroko dashed to meet the visitor at the door.

"Izumi!"

At first, she was actually happy to see him. Then she realized he wasn't saying anything.

He leaned against the wall. She got the distinct impression that he was searching for something to say. She glanced behind her and closed the door, allowing them some measure of privacy in the back hall. A paparazzi could come up at any minute, but no one did.

"Are you all right?" he said, at last finding the right words. They sounded mechanical.

"Yeah," she said, equally distant. Was this how it was going to be? Was this what they were reduced to? They'd been getting along fine. Meroko was puzzled and then she realized: _We know too much_. Her heart sank and she leaned on the wall across from him, allowing the silence to settle.

A smile flickered into his face ."Nice outfit," he said. Meroko looked down and finally took note of what she was wearing: some kind of sheer, black slip, with thigh-high boots and bright red lingerie underneath. She wished she had something to cover up with.

"Thanks a_ lot_."

"No, really."

"You've got problems."

"I never claimed otherwise."

They were quiet then.

"I heard you're dancing."

"Yeah."

"Are you sure you won't just land on your ass?"

"You know, if you're going to be a jerk, you can leave. I really, really don't need this right now."

The traces of a smirk disappeared from his face. "You're right."

He looked away from her to fiddle with his coat buttons. She looked away to pull down the hem of her dress. It wouldn't get any longer than brushing the middle of her thighs.

"You'll do great," he said suddenly.

"Thanks," she said. She meant it.

He nodded. She expected him to leave, but he didn't. As if emboldened by her reaction, he continued:

"I was kidding about you falling on your ass."

Moments before walking out, Meroko took a deep breath. Good job. Not much to do in this, she told herself. There were other girls, too. It wasn't like she was going to be the center of everyone's attention.

Except, because of the tabloid thing, she was.

* * *

"How did it go?"

Meroko looked over his direction. She was still chilled from the early-morning night cold. She must have been distracted, because she hadn't noticed his door opening.

"You weren't there?"

He shrugged. He didn't want her to get the idea that he'd been half waiting for her to return - not that sleep was even vaguely possible to begin with, tonight.

"I thought I didn't see you," she said, nodding to herself. A little louder, to him: "I didn't think I saw you there, but I thought I might have just been distracted."

"I left. So?"

She smiled brightly. The flush in her cheeks wasn't just from the cold: it was from excitement. "It went good. I mean, I don't think those paparazzi are going to have anything nice to say about me, but at least I didn't trip and, um. Fall on my ass."

He smiled without feeling it, too absorbed in observing her to feel much else. Seeing her so flushed and happy made something uncoil within him. Something dark and dead that felt bitter at its intrusion on something bright and alive.

Her expression clouded. He felt a little better: shades of gray. "Although - although I still got harassed a lot." She shook it off. Izumi was conflicted: one part of him wanted to tell the people who'd harassed her that they were scum and better off caged or dead. The other part wanted to harass her himself. The first part felt disgusted. "I guess I'm going to go get some sleep before the sun comes up," she said, nodding toward her door. "You have no idea how glad I am that this is over."

He nodded vacantly. She didn't seem to notice, because, humming, she just went into her apartment and shut the door behind her.

In her wake, the hallway was left in silence. For a moment, Izumi wished he had asked her more. Maybe even that he had _told _her more.

He decided that this was a sign that he ought to sleep, too. He'd told his mother he'd come with her to her specialist appointment work. The thought filled him with a dark kind of dread, a dread that somehow mixed with Meroko and himself to become something ugly and visceral.

* * *

Meroko shifted the poinsettia on her hip and knocked. For a minute, she thought he wasn't home, even though it was certainly late enough – but, no, he was opening the door – and there he was, with black shadows under his eyes and wrinkled clothes.

"What are you staring at?"

She noticed what he had in his hand. "You're drinking?" She thought, with a pang of shame, of the night they'd slept together. "I thought you didn't drink?"

"I didn't used to," he said, staring her down before taking a deliberate sip from the wine bottle. It was half empty.

"I – I brought this for you." He stared some more. She stubbornly held out the poinsettia, refusing to clarify the obvious.

"Yeah," he said, in a way that very much indicated he felt very little anything, much less thanks. A distant, distracted look came into his eyes and Meroko stole the opportunity to slip into his room. She put the plant on the counter. The place was neat as always, although the blinds were still closed and the bed was unmade. Some papers and pills lay on the table.

"My father used to drink," he said, so suddenly that she nearly jumped. He was behind her, looking at the papers over her shoulder. She hadn't noticed him.

He took another sip.

"He used to beat my mother," he added.

Meroko felt herself go cold. "Oh," was all she could say.

He only shrugged again and whisked the papers away from her view.

"Hey!"

"Not your… business."

"How much have you drank?"

"Some."

He sounded less focused than usual. Less cold and sharp, more distant and careless. Meroko suddenly felt very afraid. She sidled close to the door and stood there, rigid.

He looked at the papers in his hands, some official-looking, typed documents that he'd crumpled in his sloppy grab. She watched him shakily try to smooth them, to little avail; watched as his eyes trailed across words that surely he must have read before. He only did this for a second before he crumpled them again, more violently this time, and let them fall to the ground.

He looked at Meroko again, as though he'd only just remembered she was in the room.

"Why are you looking at me like – like that?"

Even in the near-darkness, she could see his eyes flickering rapidly, like he was trying hard to stay awake.

"Kimiharu-" she began, before clamping her mouth shut. She'd already said too much.

The room was very quiet for a moment, and then Izumi, whose mind was sluggish from the alcohol, figured it out:

"He was drunk," he said, with an air of wonder at the realization.

She edged so close to the wall that she could feel her shoulder blades grinding into it.

He looked at her with something like sadness. "I wouldn't do that," he said.

She pursed her lips together and looked away.

"I wouldn't," he insisted.

"I know… I just…"

"Could you maybe – just for a minute – "

She was unclear about what he wanted from her until she looked up again. Not at him – she didn't like seeing him like this – but at the table. There were so many pill bottles there that it looked like he'd raided his medicine cabinet. _Why would he…?_

She froze. Completely, utterly froze. Her mind went blank. Nothing was real. Nothing registered. Just a dark room. Just now. Just the fact that she felt like she was going to puke.

"Me-chan?"

"What'd you take?" Her voice quivered.

"Anti-anxiety pills. I take – I took - them for anxiety."

_Took. _

Meroko was no doctor, but every headline about celebrity suicide she'd ever read flashed through her mind and ended with her own pitiful attempt. Without another word to him, she stepped over to his phone.

"What? What're you-?"

"Hello? Hi. Oh. Um. I'm – " she glanced at Izumi. Oh, God. Oh_God. _How was she supposed to do this? Now that she was looking carefully, she could see how unfocused his eyes were, how short his breathing was and – oh, _fuck. _She felt things getting blurry. She was going to cry. She was fucking overwhelmed, and she was going to cry.

She heard him make something between a gasp and a moan.

"Miss," said the calm, brisk voice at the other end of the line, "I'll need to know what your problem is."

"-Meroko Yue. My friend took some pills and is currently drinking _– _and drank some wine." Hands shaking, she pried the wine out of his hands. He didn't notice. Meroko was scared that the fourteen flights between them and the ground floor might spell his death.

"And where are you currently?"

Meroko gave her Izumi's address.

xxx

Meroko didn't go in to see him. The doctors and nurses offered. They said that he was making a good recovery (except for lasting damage to his liver, which was about as good as he could expect); that he didn't want family, that he wanted _her_. But Meroko said nothing. She didn't know whatto say. All she knew was white halls and an apathetic call to Neon to tell them she couldn't make it again.

"And do you have any excuse?" Candy's tone was exasperated, tried, but the catch in her voice implied that she was giving Meroko a last chance.

"No," Meroko said. "I have no excuse."

A sizeable pause. Maybe Candy was taking a drag of her cigarette. "You can come and clean out your locker tomorrow, during the day." Click.

Meroko wandered aimlessly around the hospital room, unwilling to return home and even less willing to see Izumi. Nothing really went through, but images crept across her tired mind: that blank spot on her bedroom wall, the fireball lights of her dance recital, Izumi, destroyed in the dim room. She eventually fell asleep in one of the hard, plastic hospital chairs and woke up to a crick in her neck. No more nurses imploring her to visit Izumi, repeating some weird lie he'd told about her being his fiancé, probably to let her in. Good. Meroko looked out the window and discerned that it was morning – the sun was up, at least, but she could tell little more from the bleak gray that greeted her.

She blearily set out for home, shivering the entire walk. She felt weak and hollow. Gutted. As she entered her apartment, the doorman's voice jarred her out of her trance.

"Excuse me, miss?" His toothy grin made Meroko nervous. Old people in general made her nervous. Her grandparents were all dead, and old people were so _old, _so close to death themselves -

"Ah - yes?"

"You have mail." He said it pointedly, though not unkindly. Meroko looked at the mailboxes lining the wall, each one an identical little safe.

"If it's bills, I can get them later." She really wasn't in the mood.

His eyes fell. "This one was handwritten."

Meroko was puzzled for a moment. Other than bills and junk mail, Meroko couldn't think of anything that would find its way into her mailbox, much less a personal letter. Then she remembered Kimiharu's words: _your mother knows. _

She had written her daughter a letter.

"I'll get it later," Meroko said hurriedly, making for the stairs.

"You look young," the man said, and for a moment, Meroko was completely freaked out. Then he said, "Not much younger than my own daughter."

She looked at him again. He looked much older than her parents - she'd imagined him to be in his sixties, at least - but she supposed he could be younger. He may have simply aged poorly.

He nodded at her, realizing that he'd overstepped his bounds.

"Try not to duck under my desk again." He gave her a little smile and went back to the muted ball game on his tiny black-and-white television.

Meroko felt something stir in her heart, a heart which was still numb with shock. Timidly, she approached the desk. "I'll take the letter," she said, despite herself.

He looked cheered, but did his best to hide it, pointing to her box. "The mailman delivered it this afternoon. I saw him putting it in there. Thought it was odd - larger envelope."

Meroko wondered what it might be. Some part of her hoped it was money, but she quashed it. How could she be so sick as to think of money at a time like this? She supposed money might have been a better alternative to whatever her mother had sent her, though. Probably a strongly worded letter of her faults. Besides, her mother would never send cash in the mail.

Meroko recognized her mother's letter as soon as she opened her mailbox. It was squished within the small quarters: a larger, manila envelope flanked by a few smaller white ones. She pulled it out. The even, perfect cursive - yes, her mother's. Meroko tore the letter open, only to find what she was least expecting.

A picture.

She slipped it out of the envelope, looking at it carefully. It was her - she must have been eight, maybe even younger, when it was taken. Dark hair, still. Red mittens. She remembered those mittens, she realized, though she hadn't thought of them in years. They'd been her favorites. In one mittened hand, she held her mother's. Her mother looked younger here - less wrinkled, hair longer and shinier and darker. She was smiling at her child, cheeks stained red with cold. In her other hand, she held her father's. He looked younger, too; it startled her how much. On some childish level she had always thought her father an immoveable object, a force of nature.

It was snowing. Meroko saw the flecks of white in her mother's and her own shared dark hair.

She remembered taking this. It was a family portrait. They'd taken it for a Christmas card, and her mother had been so pleased she'd ordered them in glossy 8-by-11s. Meroko stared down at it and remembered how the photographer had asked her to straighten her spine, tilt her head, smile for the camera.

She turned the photo face-down and reached into the envelope to see if there was anything else. She found a small piece of paper, not even a full sheet, with a quick note on it.

_I want to ask you a million things, but I know you never liked reading very much so I'll keep it short. I hope you're well, despite everything we've heard. We're worried for you. We want you to come back home. Fuzuki and your other friends miss you very much. Kimiharu especially. I think he loves you, you know. _

_Your father hasn't been speaking much since we saw you at the hospital. I know he's as upset about this as I am. Moe, I should have made you stay then. I've been a failure of a mother, haven't I? Something is wrong. That wasn't an accident, those pills, and the hospital. But there's nothing we can do, legally, and I was at a loss._

_I've thought a million times that you must not love me anymore, that you're doing this, that nothing I say can affect you or change your mind. I'm sorry for whatever I did, to make you do this. I'm so, so sorry. I love you as much as I did when you were seven, and I can't bear the thought of you sleeping in some slum all alone on Christmas. _

_Please, Moe. Come home._

Meroko turned the note face down, too, and clutched the papers to her chest.

She stood there stupidly, willing herself not to blink. She wasn't sure if she was on the brink of crying, but she could feel a lump in her throat and wasn't about to risk it. Not after all she'd gotten through today without crying. Nuh-uh.

"Are you okay?" It was the doorman.

She gave the doorman a small, absent nod and headed out the door, still clutching the papers like an idiot.

She found some spare change in her pocket and slipped into the payphone booth.

When her mother picked up, Meroko could tell from her crackly "hello", slightly anxious, that she might have been expecting such a call.

Meroko couldn't breathe.

"Hello? Hello? Who is this? Moe? Is that you?"

Meroko hung the phone up with a clang. As soon as she did, she wondered why. She had nothing to live for anymore. A filthy apartment. No job. A destroyed sort-of lover who was about as low and insane as she was. So low she didn't want him anymore.

Slowly, she dialed the number again.


	14. nights just blend into the morning

12/9/10: Epilogue coming soon. :)

* * *

_to uncover what was purposefully lost _  
_and we all looked so desparate _  
_showing the guidance that we lack_

* * *

Meroko didn't bother to turn the light switch on when it got dark out.

Her suitcase felt cold under her fingers, with its fake-snake texture. Her clothing felt restrictive and heavy under her: she'd bundled up, wearing a long sleeved shirt, a sweater, and a coat. Her mother would be angry if she saw that Meroko was dressing inappropriately for the weather. Or worse, just inappropriately.

Meroko bit her lip and glanced around at the room. She'd said goodbye to her teakettle, goodbye to her little table, her pillows and blankets. She realized, again, just how much was here in the first place. More than it looked, surely.

It was strange. Her mother had wanted Moe to come home right away, as soon as possible. But she had insisted she needed time to pack, which seemed laughable, now. Most of it wouldn't fit in her room at home, much less her bags. And how would her mother feel about the teakettle's rusty spot, or her table's creaky legs, or the plain, battered state of her blankets? Meroko realized that what she'd really wanted was to say goodbye. She had been free her, at least. For a while. She closed her eyes, thinking, then opened them again. She bit her lip.

She didn't really know how she would return home. Back to her clean, laundry-scented twin bed for the holidays. And then, she realized hazily, her parents would smooth things over with her college and she would go back there – to a dorm shared with some othefr suburban girl on weekdays. She closed her eyes and buried her face in her coat hood. Fuzuki. How would she face Fuzuki? Or Kimiharu? Would they take up dating again, like nothing had happened? After her parents got her to dye her hair back to black, she would look like she had before – unrecognizable. Her stomach turned. She didn't even want to _think _about her father, even though he probably wouldn't care at all.

She only knew that she was not cut out for Here. The problems had piled on, and now it was time to run. Let them catch up, if they could. Meroko was forever running, and if she got tired, at least she never got caught.

She felt very empty.

She stared at her door and wondered if she should go and say goodbye. Mechanically, like a wind-up toy, she walked toward the door and stepped out into the hall. The fluorescent lights flickered.

She knocked on his door.

No answer. _He must not be in. _

Maybe he was still sick, but, _no, he should be home by now. _

She knocked again.

And again.

And she realized: _I want to say goodbye to him, too. _

She was about to knock again when it opened to reveal Izumi. He looked better than the last time she'd seen him, certainly, but still disheveled, like he'd slept far too little. He looked too thin. She'd never seen someone get so much thinner so much faster, especially when he was lithe to begin with. He must not have been eating much at all. He was downright bony.

Meroko froze. She forgot everything she wanted to say. There was something palpable between them, something heavy. She remembered that she hadn't gone in to see him during his hospitalization. He probably remembered that he'd just tried to kill himself a little less than a week ago.

"I just wanted to say… goodbye."

She should have turned around them. Turned back into her apartment, and waited that last half-hour for her mother to come and fetch her.

He said nothing. He stared at his feet. Meroko had never seen Izumi so beaten.

"…What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, and began to shut the door.

She stuck her foot in.

"I'm serious," she said. She could hear her heart bleeding in her voice. _What's wrong with me? Why do I act like this?_

There was a long, long pause. Izumi tried to shut the door again, a little violently, but Meroko's foot wedged in the doofrway made that impossible.

"My mother's dead," he said sharply.

She stared at him.

His mouth tightened. "I'm sorry," he said coolly, "I really shouldn't unload this on you."

"Are you okay? I don't mean - I just mean, you can't feel _nothing _about it."

He sighed. "Are you my therapist, Me-chan?" It sounded less cruel this time. More tired.

"No. But I'll listen."

He held the door open for her, shutting it with a kind of primness that indicated this would be a one-sided visit. She sat down at his kitchen table, twirling a bit of hair nervously. He seated himself across from her and immediately slumped over, putting his forehead in his hands.

Meroko stared at him.

"She's dead," he repeated, quietly, evenly.

She forgot that she'd ever thought he was an asshole or a psycho: the being before her was a child. Just a sad, scared, tired child, and she saw herself in him in all the ways she'd never imagined.

She wanted to help him.

She realized, suddenly, that maybe the best way to do that was by listening. She fiddled with her coat buttons in the silence. _I'm picking up his habits, _she thought, without any real emotion.

"I just left her. Some son I am. But she found me again when she needed me. You know she left those notes on my door hoping I'd have to see her - how thin her face is -"

When he looked up, she took his hand, held it between her own. He was colder than she was. Cold, cold – always so cold.

He jerked his hand away. It was the only sign of life amidst his listlessness.

"_Why?_" she finally croaked out, standing on shaky legs. Her chair scraped the ground as she rose. Her voice was hoarse. _Why don't you want me? Why do you pull away? Why do you do this to me, over and over again, and why do I let you?_

"I…"

His eyes flickered. He looked down at his wrung-together hands.

"You what?"

"I love you," he said. The words didn't feel real. She checked. No. They definitely weren't.

"No," she said, "No you don't." _If you did, _a harsh voice whispered, _if you did, you wouldn't be so cruel to me. _

"I do. I love you." She looked up, tears held in place by newfound astonishment. He was looking up at her. His eyes. Yellow and cat-like, and...

Not blank.

And Meroko realized, for the first time, she was looking Izumi in the eye. Not the other way around. She - Meroko - was looking Izumi in the eye, and for the first time, those eyes were something other than just glassy. They were sad and tired and hungry, desperate, disgusted, honest, ashamed. The deluge of emotion left Meroko wordless.

He lowered his chin. She noticed what could have been the flash of a quivering lip.

She stood, as if by instinct, and wrapped him up in her arms as best she could standing up. His elbow dug into her side. She didn't care. She didn't care, as long as she could finally make him warm.

Somehow, her head ended resting on his. His was buried in her shoulder.

"All I'm good for is guilt," he said, still even.

She said nothing, just rubbing his back, trying and trying to make it warm.

* * *

His arm was around her when they woke up, his head tucked under hers. Meroko didn't give his odd position any thought. She looked at the clock and realized her mother would have come and gone. But that was unimportant. She was needed here.

She tried to make out his room in the dark, tracing the strangely familiar fixtures of his home.

She remembered her mother's note: _sleeping in some slum all alone on Christmas. _Meroko thought about Izumi's arm draped over her. At least she wasn't alone.

Quietly, she sat up and thought about what had just happened. She felt confused, first off. Confused because, once again, Izumi brought out a weird wheel of emotions in her. Top to bottom, top to bottom. Second, she felt surreal. Third, she felt an overwhelming, permeating sadness.

She held her breath. She could hear something beating against the building – hard, pounding, constant. Against the roof, it was audible as a soft pitter-patter. Sleet-rain.

She smoothed a bit of his hair and stood up, smoothing the rumples out of her still-present coat as she did so.

She went to her room and fished an envelope out from under her bed. There was a note taped on her door. She knew it was from her mother, just as Izumi had so often had notes from his mother taped to his door. She ignored it.

She went back to Izumi and nudged him awake.

"What…?'

She held out the envelope. He opened it, curious but too sleepy to truly be interested.

"… Money?"

"For your mother's funeral," she whispered.

"Meroko," Izumi said, "This… is five hundred dollars."

He sounded like he was torn between laughing and crying again.

"I know it's not much." It was her Takuto-money, her rainy-day money. She couldn't think of a day rainier than today. "But you can use it for whatever you need it for."

Izumi examined it for a moment and then set it on his bedside table. Meroko felt herself smile. He understood. He understood how badly she wanted to help him, even if it was stupid, and he was taking her help.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome."

She nestled her head in his shoulder. She felt his breath on her neck.

When she shifted her head, he kissed her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and she believed him.

* * *

He awoke to a sizzing sound, harmonizing with the sound of cold, hard rain drumming the roof.

For a moment, he thought something – his home, maybe, or jus this bed – was burning. But no. That was just the nightmares talking. He didn't know the last time he'd cooked properly, or had someone cook properly for him. Sometimes he still thought the trains were screaming him awake, but it had been years since he'd moved out of there. His mother didn't even live near the tracks anymore.

He turned to stare blearily at his kitchen. The previous night's events slipped back to him, and as they did, a tired ache crept back into his bones.

The kitchen didn't match his mood at all. It was bright, about as brightly lit as it could be without outright waking him up. He could smell, now, and the sweet, warm smell of sausages made his somach turn.

Without meaning to, he coughed, and she turned her head toward him.

She was dressed far more tidily than he'd ever seen her. It was disorienting. She wore a turtleneck, knee-length skirt, tights, and practical heels.

He noticed she wore all black.

His stomach tightened again.

"Hey," she said, smiling, "I made breakfast."

He crept out of bed. The floor felt cold under his feet. He realized his chest hurt where he'd slept on the buttons of his dress shirt. If she thought the sight of his crumpled clothes funny, she didn't say anything about it. He'd gone to work the day before, loathe to acknowledge his suicide attempt. But then he'd realized it was Christmas Eve. He'd nearly laughed at how out-of-it he was - like a sleepwalker, like an insane man.

And then he'd gotten the call about his mother.

Izumi took a seat at his table as Meroko hurried to turn on the rest of his lights. Her heels made neat-sounding clicking noises on his floor whenever she walked across it.

This was all so bizarre – her, fussing over him, his mother's death, the slippery feeling in the pit of his stomach… he focused on the chronic water stains on his wall, tracing their outlines. One looked like a rabbit.

What was she still doing here?

"I made breakfast," she said, startling him. Had he said that out loud? He glanced oer at her, where she busied herself with the sausages again. "I made pancakes, too," she said. He looked over at the counter. Sure enough, she'd piled a high stack on a paper plate. "And there's orange juice – oh, it's still in the bag-"

"I'll get it," he said, and she looked quickly back at her sausages. He nearly snorted when he saw that she'd practically covered the table in flour. The messy bowl sat on his counter. She hadn't even bothered to put it in the sink. Obviously Meroko didn't know the meaning of _clean. _

Even the bag had bits of flour in it. There was a tabloid in it, too, one she'd apparently forgotten.

Izumi scanned the cover. His eyes stayed fixed. His jaw clenched.

Takuto Kira.

But when he looked closer he felt his jaw easing, his heart unclenching. Buried in his cold indifference, he found a stab of pity. The bones of Takuto Kira's face stuck out sharply, even for a rock singer. His blue eyes looked large in a shrunken skull. Hadn't he only been in a coma for a couple of weeks? Maybe it was something else.

_TAKUTO KIRA'S MIRACULOUS RECOVERY – MYSTERIOUS BREAKUP WITH MODEL FIANCEE_

For a brief, jealous moment, he wondered if this accounted for Meroko's cheerfulness, but – no. So he was alive – but diminished. Izumi let the tabloid go. It was too hard, too much like looking in a mirror.

He looked up and caught Meroko's eye. She held it. For a split second, Izumi could understand why Takuto had broken up with his model girlfriend: obviously there was no woman more beautiful, more desirable, more _anything. _Then he realized his was being stupid. What was more, he was being sentimental.

Shaking the thought out of his head, he took the orange juice to the table and poured them both a glass, hers fuller than his. When he sat back down he realized that the room had gone quiet, despite the sizzling sausages and the drum of the rain. He turned to find her staring at him.

"What?"

"Well… aren't you going to eat anything?"

His stomach churned at the thought of food. "No." _She doesn't understand, _he thought, and for a moment everything felt unreal and pointless.

"But you're so skinny," she said, in a voice so quiet he could barely hear it over the sausages and the rain. Unthinkingly, he reached for his stomach. He could feel ribs.

"That's what I mean," she said.

He willed himself to get up, taking the plate she'd set on the table with him.

"It's just hard," he said, not daring to look at her.

To her credit, she didn't disagree.

He took as little as he could get away with, then sat back down. He even took the pancake bowl. Concious of his dignity, he scraped it with a fork instead of with his fingers.

Meroko sat across from him, sipping some orange juice. Moe. Her dirtbag ex had called her Moe. Somehow, he couldn't quite see her as anything but Meroko, but he supposed she could have been a different person, in a different time. He noticed the odd contrast between her modest, black clothing and her artificially pink hair.

Maybe they were the same person. Maybe the only difference was that Moe had grown up and odd.

She stared at the batter bowl. "How…?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What."

"Okay, I just wondered – how you can eat it like that?"

He smiled wanly down at the bowl. "It's an acquired taste," he said. His mother had always made her pancakes raw in the middle, gooey and heavy (if they weren't burnt). She'd been a terrible cook, even when they were just box pancakes.

His mother.

After a long moment, he pushed the bowl away and looked up at Meroko again. She looked worriedly back.

"I might say _you're _too skinny," he said. "You should have some of your own cooking. I won't be able to eat this all."

She laughed nervously, but her face flushed with appreciation. He'd meant it – she looked too-thin, fragile, breakable, which until that moment had always seemed part of her appeal. "Thanks. Maybe I will."

There was another quiet, and she grew somber. Izumi, for his part, occupied himself with chewing his pancakes very slowly. They tasted sickeningly sweet, especially so early in the morning. Most of the time he just made himself a semi-bitter cup of coffee. It wasn't like he could taste much in the mornings, anyway.

"What are you going to do?"

"With…?"

She nodded. He stared down again, at his half-eaten pancakes, suddenly fuller than before.

"She'd want to be buried."

"Oh," she said, "I was… expecting cremation. Today." That would account for all the black. "Sorry. I… I didn't think."

"It was my father. Who was Japanese." His words came out stilted. He was glad, though, that she didn't ask more about his father. He didn't remember exactly what he'd told her before his hospitalization, but he knew he didn't want anyone – even her, with whom he'd already passed the point of no return – to know any more. Talking about his mother was bad enough. There really wasn't much about his father to talk about in the first place.

At least with his mother he remembered the stupid pancakes.

The rain drummed. He tried to fill the silence with another bite of pancake, but it felt thick in his mouth, and the knot in his throat made it hard to swallow.

He felt her hand enveloping his.

This time, he didn't pull away.

* * *

When Izumi left to go to the store, he paused to stare at his door. No yellow note this time. Instead, someone had hung a wreathe – the real kind, with the nice smell - decorated with a red ribbon.

He smiled.

He'd forgotten that it was Christmas.


	15. almost turn your ankle in the snow

2/16/13: A little epilogue.

As much as I wanted to, I don't think I would have completed this epilogue without everyone who reads this. Thanks so much to everyone who enjoyed this fic and remembered it even after it was "finished". If you still have interest - cool! If not, that's fine, too.

This chapter is fluffy and LONG. You all deserve it. You're the best for sticking with this story, and you can't imagine how much I appreciate your investment, despite the story's faults. I love this story, too, faults and all.

If you've been following the wonky timeline, certain details in this chapter show that this takes place a year after chapter 14…

* * *

_you disembark the latest flight to paradise_

_you almost turn your ankle in the snow_

_you fall back into where you started_

_make up words to songs you still don't know_

_... I'm still in love with you_

* * *

Debbie's water sloshed heavy in its bottle. Her face was red.

Debbie observed herself in the dark glass across the gym hallway. Absently, she pushed a flyaway strand down and frowned.

"I don't think I've lost any weight." She noticed the wrinkles that formed in her forehead when she frowned, and she stopped. Smoothed her face.

"Oh, don't be silly. You've definitely lost weight." That was Georgia, who looked – Debbie noted – far less disheveled than she did. Even sexy, maybe. Thin. Younger than thirty (actually, thirty-two, but they didn't talk about that).

_Smooth face. Don't wrinkle._

Debbie had married straight out of college. She and Georgia had been best friends, back then. Now they were weekly workout-and-sushi buddies, although they'd started dropping the sushi, what with Georgia's divorce. _It's good for her to get out and see people, _Debbie had told their mutual friends.

Debbie looked down at her own ring. Her husband was a doctor. She liked to remind herself of this whenever she remembered that Georgia was skinnier than she was.

Debbie looked back at her own reflection only to have her gaze broken by a small figure stepping down the hall. The younger woman was a flurry of pink hair and layered cloth, complete with a shiny, bright-red coat.

"Bye! See you next week!"

And she was gone on the elevator. She waved as the doors closed. She bounced up and down on tiptoe, like she couldn't wait to get wherever it was she was going.

Someplace young.

Debbie took another chug of water. The blood seemed to have flowed from her face and back to the places it should have been. "She looks so young," Georgia marveled. Debbie noted worry in her voice, and tried to pretend that she didn't feel the same apprehension. The same jealousy. "But I suppose you can never tell with Asian women."

"I always feel like I'm pronouncing her name wrong – it's such a strange name for a girl. Mo-eh? I always forget later."

Debbie's face had almost gone back to normal. Georgia's was screwed up in thought. "Doesn't she look kind of familiar to you? In a really weird way?"

"Well, she taught the class last week, too. Instead of that other girl. Oh, what's her name? Doesn't it start with a J?"

"No, I mean… outside of the gym."

"Like at the grocery store?"

"You don't see people with hair like that every day. I think you'd remember something like that."

"Oh, never mind. I was thinking – in a magazine or something. Never mind. It's so weird."

"They've been doing a lot of aerobic pole dancing spotlights in Cosmo. There, maybe?"

Her tone said that she was less than convinced, and Georgia dropped it with a shake of her head. "No, no, you're right. It's just déjà vu, I'm sure."

"It's probably because she's so pretty," Debbie said, with a pang of envy. "Pretty girls like that all look the same. You're probably confusing her with some Vogue shoot Lucy Liu did or something. "

Georgia laughed, self-concious now (good!) and reached to pick up her exercise bag. It was a gaudy, bejeweled thing, and Debbie always winced when she saw it. It was so _gauche_, so grabby. Her husband would never let her buy something like that. Thank God.

There was even a _tabloid_ sticking out of Georgia's bag, one that Debbie had seen at the checkout of her grocery store. She'd also bought it – but she'd thrown it out before her husband could see it. Same with the pack of cigarettes.

The tabloid read:

_TAKUTO'S NEW FLING – ALLEGATIONS OF UNDERAGE GIRLS UNDERMINE THE SINGER'S SUCCESS – HEARTBROKEN HIKARI FACES THE FACTS._

Georgia noticed Debbie looking and quickly tucked it away.

"Oh," Georgia said, "Never mind. It probably _was _the grocery store."

* * *

The gym wasn't far from her apartment, and Meroko liked walking, especially in the daytime.

The sun had already set, leaving lances of weak orange in the sky. But there was no slush in the streets yet, no typical city snow, although Meroko would swear she'd caught a snowflake on her tongue the day before.

It was nice weather, if a little nippy.

Meroko hummed a little as she walked, wondering what she could eat for dinner.

Her apartment was only on the third floor of her new building – a blessing. There was an elevator, but Meroko walked up the stairs, trailing her hand along the bannister, letting her rainboots thump the stairs.

She fumbled for her keychain (rabbit-shaped) and opened the door to 377.

The apartment was a bit dark – and small – but there were neither vermin nor water stains, and she'd made an effort to clutter it with knick-knacks.

She hung up her coat She grabbed the mail and flipped through it, setting aside the issue of Cosmo_. _Bill, bill, bill, already gutted… She paused. One letter was written was unopened, and the address was written in a familiar hand. She didn't even have to glance in the corner to see the return address – it was the address she had called hers for so long she could recite it from memory.

She tucked it behind the magazine and tried to put it from her mind. Her mother hadn't tried to contact her since she'd moved, only in part because Meroko had taken pains to more thoroughly disconnect herself.

It was then that she noticed a third coat on the pegs, next to the practical, familiar black one.

A girl's coat.

Meroko reached out, unbelieving, to touch it. She could hear voices exchanging quiet conversation in the next room.

"Izumi?" Her voice came out sounding high, even to herself.

Without taking off her boots, she stepped inside the kitchen.

When she saw them, she stood in the doorway as though held by some invisible barrier, her hand on the frame.

"Fuzuki," she whispered.

Her old friend looked up at her with apprehension. Of course. It had been so long. Fuzkui's fingers sat in her lap, delicately knotted like some kind of threadcraft. All the sharp girlishness had disappeared in their year apart, leaving more curves than Meroko remembered.

_She cut her hair, _Meroko thought.

Then: _she's graduating in the spring. _

She felt that strange emptiness, one she hadn't felt in a long time. It was the feeling of a winter wind whipping tress bare, passing them by. Meroko groped for a chair and sat down next to Izumi.

She was too surprised to scream or scold or question, but she felt his hand take hers under the table.

His other was around his mug. Tea. She noticed that he and Fuzuki both had cups.

She glanced over at him.

His eyes were trained on Fuzuki, but they flickered down to her hand – in both of his.

"Do you want tea?"

His voice had sympathy in it. She shook her head.

"You're sure?"

She realized he was offering her and Fuzuki a moment alone at the table. She shook her head again.

"He said you wouldn't be home for a while, but that I could wait," Fuzuki said apologetically.

"It's totally fine," Meroko replied, falling back to an old high-school voice. _God. _Was that was she sounded like? "I… I don't mind seeing you. But how… how did you…?"

Fuzuki smiled faintly. "Your mother."

"Oh."

Meroko thought of the magazine under her arm and, more importantly, the envelope tucked underneath it. She set the magazine on the table, careful to hide the letter.

"She's doing well. If you're wondering. Your dad, too. And Seijuro."

"Good." It _was_ good to hear it. _"Good."_

Fuzuki chewed at her lip. Meroko was glad when she didn't mention Kimiharu. "So…what are you up to? Izumi said you have a job at an athletic club around here."

Izumi picked up his tea and sipped, as though to acquit himself of an explanation.

"Yeah. I… I got a job teaching. I mean, originally I was just doing towel check and everything. But when they said they were doing a new kind of class, well – it was really different from anything they'd done before, and I had some experience, and they're giving me a chance. It pays pretty well."

"Oh! That's great. What do you do?"

Izumi coughed into his mug.

"Pole dancing. I teach aerobic pole dancing classes."

Fuzuki smiled. "Maybe I should sign up for a class."

There were so many times when Meroko had wished Fuzuki – serene, nurturing Fuzuki – could have somehow been her mother. She could feel the note under the magazine, burning with Meroko's own shame.

Meroko heard Fuzuki's chair scrape, and she looked up at her friend. "It's been good seeing you. Seeing you _both._" She nodded at Izumi. Meroko stood, too, and she put her arms around her friend. Meroko squeezed her eyes shut and held Fuzuki there tight, until Fuzuki laughed – her gentle, sweet laugh – and disentangled herself.

"I'm sorry, I have a train to catch. But I left my address and phone number on the table. I'm living with Seijuru now –we're going to med school together. Of course, our parents don't know – about the living together, not the med school - and we're counting on you not to tell them!"

Meroko managed a wobbly smile. "I wouldn't… don't worry."

"He's thinking of leaving med school for the orchestra." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "They offered him a job. He's not sure yet. But I told him he should take it. He's been composing again… he's thinking of trying to get a stage for his own work." She looked ashamed of this outburst – on some level, Meroko realized, Fuzuki had always known about her feelings for Seijuro.

That was over, now. That was Moe Rikyu. Meroko thought of the girl she used to be – the girl she was – and smiled.

"He deserves it. If I could play violin like that, I wouldn't become a doctor."

Fuzuki looked down at her feet, then back up at Meroko. Her face was solemn. "I wanted to tell you that I'd like us to be friends again, Moe. You don't know… I felt like I'd driven you away. That if I could have been a better friend, none of this would have happened."

_Tell her,_ a little voice in her head said, _tell her about Kimiharu. Tell her why you ran away. Let her be the friend you never gave her the chance to be. _

"Fuzuki?"

"Yes?"

"Do you still see… Kimiharu?"

She saw Izumi flinch.

"No… not much. I think he got into some kind of med school, too, but I forgot where his mother said he was going." She bit her lip again, careful. "I probably wasn't really listening. I know you dated him, Moe, but… I'm glad he won't be around."

_Tell her. _

Fuzuki shook her head. "I'm sorry. I said that none of this would have happened like it was a bad thing but – you look so happy." She smiled again, all serenity. "Maybe your running was the right thing. Maybe you ran someplace better."

"Maybe," Meroko said.

"Come visit us if you have the time." She aimed her smile at Izumi, who returned it with a small, genuine one of his own. "Izumi can come, too. Come together! We'll have a housewarming party."

Meroko mustered a little laughter through her misty eyes. She thought, painfully, of her lonely first apartment: red kettle, tiny TV, scattered pills. _That's over now. _"Okay."

"If you ever need help…"

"I'll call you," Meroko said. _Next time. I promise._

She watched as Fuzuki put on her coat and braced herself for the winter chill. It was dark, now, with only the slightest blue light to see by. Fuzuki smiled one last time and she was gone, leaving silence in her wake.

As she locked the door, Meroko heard the clink of a mug brought down to wood. She wondered if he'd recognized Seijuro's name, from her long-ago argument with Kimiharu. She wondered if he'd put together the fragments of her past, and she wondered what he'd thought of it. It hurt, to think of how she'd loved Seijuro. So much. Like there could never have been anyone else.

"She really did leave her number, didn't she?"

"Yes," she heard.

"How long have you been meeting her?" His face, when she stepped into the kitchen, was clear of guilt.

"Just once. She asked me not to tell you."

"I'll take that tea now."

Wordlessly, Izumi got to his feet and busied himself with the kettle. Meroko felt a kind of calm overtake her. "What did she say?"

"I think she wanted to meet me. She wanted to know if you would see her."

"Of course I would."

"I told her that I thought so. Herbal?"

No more talking. Her trance broke when the pot whistled, and Izumi took it off the heat and placed a cup in front of her. She warmed her hands around it.

Izumi touched her cheek, and she looked up at him. "You look hungry. Dinner?"

She put her hands around his face and brought her lips to his. His lips were dry and slightly chapped. His touch was warm.

"I'm not hungry," she said. "Just tired."

* * *

Meroko woke in the middle of the night.

Izumi's arms were loose around her, and warm. His toes were cold under the covers, and, absent-mindedly, she moved her own feet to warm them.

The full moon spilled in through the slits of the blinds. "We should get curtains," she whispered aloud, softly so as not to wake Izumi. When he did not reply, she added, _"Pink _ones."

She smiled to herself as he twitched in his sleep.

When she tried to close her eyes, all she could see was the letter, sitting on the kitchen table, and how her mother's words lay inside like shrapnel.

_It's nothing unkind,_ she told herself. _She wouldn't be unkind. _

She hadn't spoken to her mother since she'd written her a letter, informing her that she, Meroko, was well and wished to remain in the city. Of course, Fuzuki had probably thrown poor Moe's mother some scraps of comfort.

_I wonder what she told her about Izumi._

_I wonder what she told her about me. _

Without thinking any longer, she slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants.

Her heart raced. She realized she was walking on tip-toe for no good reason, and yet she continued. Superstitious.

The letter was in the napkin holder, where she'd left it. Izumi hadn't thought to spare it a second glance – or, perhaps, he knew its importance, as he had when he'd swept through the bills and left this one, home-sent envelope intact. She opened it with shaky fingers, knowing all too well what it would contain, and she read by the moonlight.

Inside was a Christmas card. On the front was a deer leaving tracks in the snow. The snow-glitter dusted on her hands.

She opened it.

_Even though you are far from home_

_You are never far from my heart_

She realized her eyes were getting wet. _It's just a card, _she told herself, except she could imagine her mother, dwarfed in her long coat and scarf, standing at the drugstore and opening card after card until she found _this _one.

_Love,_

_Mom_ and, in nearly indecipherable writing, _Dad. _

She stared down at it for a long time.

She set the card down on the table and went back to the bed, where she shook Izumi awake.

"Izumi… Izumi."

He pretended he was still asleep, but she saw making faces at her.

"I have something to ask you."

"Can it wait?"

"No. No, it can't."

He was getting steadily more awake, and steadily more resolute about not properly getting up. "This isn't like that one time?"

"No! This isn't just about the TV not working, okay? This is_ really_ serious!"

His eyes blinked open. The moonlight managed to catch the brown and make them yellow. She loved it when that happened. Even if he was being stubborn.

"_Okay._ Up. I'm up." He yawned, like a cat, and closed his eyes again.

"I got a letter from my mom."

He didn't reply.

"I think she wants me to come visit her."

Izumi's eyes remained closed. She reached out and poked his cheek.

"Stop that."

She leaned in close to his face. "You have baby cheeks, you know."

"Well, it's lucky I'm with you. _You _look like a woodland creature."

"It's okay for girls," she said. Secretly, she noted that she wouldn't change a thing about him. Baby cheeks, cat yawns, and yellow eyes included.

"Do you want to go?"

She twisted her hand into the comforter. "I'm not sure."

"Sleep on it."

"What do you think?"

This time she thought he would answer.

"It's not up to me. It's not my mother, it's yours. Your mother and father - your family." He rolled over. "Just sleep on it, Me-chan."

"But what would you do?" she asked. "If it _was_. I mean. If it was _your_ mother."

She bit her lip.

Izumi was very still.

"You only have one."

She slid back down under the covers and collapsed into the warmth of the sheets. On his back, she traced the places where his spine and skin met. Her touch was feather-light.

"I'll sleep on it," she said.

Izumi had already fallen asleep, and she followed, resting her head against him.

* * *

In the morning, Meroko awoke to an empty bed. That wasn't unusual.

It was a Saturday. _That _was unusual.

She went to the kitchen and ate a bowl of cereal while she watched TV. When the TV got boring, she turned it off and went to the little window and stared out at the people walking underneath.

She had to work at five, and she wanted to talk to Izumi before he got back. She wanted to go. But would they both go? And could she get time off work? She'd agreed to work the holiday, thinking that Izumi could accommodate her. But if they were going out of town…

Izumi had never said he wanted to come.

Should she book one ticket or two?

It was going to cost money.

She rinsed out her cereal bowl and hummed to herself.

She tried not to think about it, but she wondered if she'd gone too far. She had all but brought up his mother, a subject she tried to stay far, far away from. She knew that if he wanted to talk about it, he would say something. Until then, he went to therapy on Tuesday nights and she tried nod to prod.

Outside, snow started falling, soft, tiny flakes. Meroko pressed herself against the glass and fogged it with her breath. In the fog, she drew a heart.

_It's so quiet. _

The sky went grey and she could hear wind shaking the walls from her seat on the couch. When she last looked out the window, everything was white.

* * *

She woke up to the door opening and closing. _Izumi, _she thought. It took her a moment to realize where she was. _Everything's so dark here. _She could hear the wind whipping the windows.

She bolted straight up. _"Oh my God,_" she said. Even her voice was small. Quiet. Anything louder would have been blasphemy. "Work… I forgot…"

Izumi's cheeks were red with cold, his eyes bright with the sting of wind. He still had his coat on, and white clumps melted rapidly there. "Shhh. It's all right. They left a message. You're off."

"What?"

"The snowstorm. Nothing's running on time today. No one's going to show up in this weather."

"Oh…"

He stood up. His bones cracked when he did, like an old man's. It made her smile the slightest of smiles.

"You must be so cold," she said. The thought struck her hard: "You got caught out there?!"

"It wasn't so terrible."

She was on her feet. "That's a lie. I can't even see it out there…" she pawed at his coat, but he denied her. His eyes and mouth told her that he was teasing her, but she couldn't let it rest. "I didn't know. I can't believe I didn't know."

"I'm fine. I'm not dead. My nose is still intact. No frostbite. No pneumonia. I promise."

"Where did you go?"

He was quiet for a while. Then, "I took a walk. Out to the traintracks."

"…Why?"

His face was like stone, all taught and painful. She felt sorry that she had asked, because he looked so sad.

"I just... needed to."

She could imagine him walking along them, thinking about the little boy he'd once been. That little boy who had never slept, that quivering house that endured horn after horn.

He hadn't told her much about his childhood, but he had told her that.

She touched his arm. He radiated cold. "How'd you get out there?"

"I took a taxi early this morning. Before the height of the snow. I managed to get back to the city just fine."

"What did you do?"

His eyes clouded. "I just… thought."

She let her hand drop.

_He's keeping things from you,_ a little voice told her.

She stared at a little spot on the carpet. Something in her dream still haunted her.

(Was it Izumi who had been waiting for her?

She hadn't gotten to see. )

She felt his hand on her shoulder. His voice had returned to normal, less vacant, less pained. _That only skimmed the surface. _She still didn't know if he remembered what happened the night that he'd overdosed. Did he remember what he'd told her? "You want to make pasta?"

She managed a smile. "Only if you don't poison me this time."

He played the straight man flawlessly. "Is that what you call it? I thought adding vegetables would be a nice change of pace."

He headed to the kitchen. _Say something,_ she thought, as she watched his back. _Say something. _

Suddenly, the moment seemed critical.

"Izumi?"

"Yes?" Het turned to look at her. When he saw her face, he moved to kneel in front of the couch where she sat.

"I don't want secrets," she said. "I'm glad you're going therapy. I think it's been good. And we've been good. _Really _good. And I don't mind if it's still hard for you to talk about your mom. That's okay. I'm not perfect either. But just... tell me if something's wrong? Okay?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Okay," he said.

"Okay."

"I want us to stay close. I just… I'm afraid of losing this. With you. Like someday it won't be enough."

"Meroko-"

"It's not a big deal. It's okay."

There was a long pause.

"I can tell you." He pulled at his collar. His face was solemn. "I'm just not sure… it's the right time."

She smiled a little. "Then tell me when it's right. When you're sure."

He kissed her near her mouth. She squeezed his hand, then let him get up to go to the kitchen. She heard him turn on the radio, where a soft pop song crackled against the silence.

_We can never part_

_You'll always find my heart_

The lyrics weren't terribly inspired, but the song was still beautiful. The singer had a voice that sounded like water, high and cascading.

"I'm going to buy this album when I get my next paycheck," she said.

She looked at him in profile. His half-smile, the way his shoulders relaxed. The way his lips quirked up. Even his eyes crinkled in a way they never would have only a year ago.

"I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd never do your own laundry. That's for sure."

"I take it back, I hate you."

He made a face. "We'll see how long you can live without your laundry, then."

She couldn't help it.

She laughed.

* * *

Five blocks away, at an out-of-the-way coffee shop (the last one still open), a blonde girl laughs, too.

A man is trudging through the snow. She can see him through the window. His hair is covered in snowflakes.

He has fought cancer and come back from the dead for her.

She has realized that she loves him.

Death has taken too much from her, and she is ready to take something back.

In the background, her song plays on the radio, but she is too caught up in this - this moment - to really notice.

* * *

That night, it was Izumi who woke.

Meroko's breath felt warm and soft on his ear. That was what he loved most, maybe. The only thing he liked more was her smile. And all her stupid faces. Sometimes he thought that they could have entire conversations in facial expressions.

He pulled himself out of bed and sat on the edge for a moment, listening to her breathing. He counted between them.

Then he stood up and walked to his coat.

It was on the coffee table where he left it. In the left pocket was the box, and in the box was a ring.

* * *

Soon, Mitsuki thinks, everything will be all right.

* * *

~Fin


End file.
